


Moments of clarity

by Builder



Series: Spiderverse [21]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, Appendicitis, Colds, Concussions, Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Motion Sickness, Peter Parker and the terrible horrible no good very bad day, Post-Concussion Syndrome, Sickfic, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Unrelated chapters, Vomiting, carsickness, one shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-05-01 10:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 53
Words: 22,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14518035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: A series of unrelated Spider-Man drabbles.  Most are sickfics.  All are very, very short.





	1. Peter's sick and Tony is a mother hen

**Author's Note:**

> This work comes from a game I like to play on Tumblr called "200-word fics." I crank out drabbles as quickly as I can while my followers throw it all at me. Here are the results (plus a few extra prompt fills).
> 
> Find me on Tumblr @builder051

Peter sinks onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.  Every inch of his body aches.  He feels like a bowling ball is crushing the space behind his forehead.  Peter digs his knuckles into his eye sockets, hating how warm his face is against his chilled hands.  He should go find Mr. Stark and tell him he doesn’t feel good and that he wants to go home. 

 

He isn’t sure that’s what he wants, though.  He’s fine where he is.  The couch is comfortable.  And it eliminates the necessity to go anywhere.  Peter knows he won’t last the car ride back to Queens. 

 

He eases himself onto his side and pulls his knees up toward his chest.  Peter sniffles so his nose won’t drip on the cream-colored upholstery.  It increases the pressure in his sinuses, and he sighs.  If he just closes his eyes for a minute, everything will be ok.  He’ll go find Tony.  But first, a little rest…

 

***

 

“Kid?” 

 

A hand fluffs Peter’s bangs and presses against his clammy forehead.  “Wow.”

 

Peter opens his eyes, and Tony’s face swims into focus.  “Hm?”  Peter opens his mouth to say something else, but he loses the words as he tries not to choke on the snot running down the back of his throat.

 

“You…have a fever.” 

 

It’s difficult for Peter to decode the emotion behind the words.  Disbelief?  Annoyance?  Concern?  Maybe all three.  Or maybe something else entirely.  Peter doesn’t trust himself to judge.  “Sorry,” he mutters, lacking anything better to say.

 

“Now, why would it be your fault?  You’re sick.  Unless you’re doing it on purpose…?”  Tony trails off, taking in Peter’s pallor and the micro tremor going in his hunched shoulders.  He shakes his head.  “You’re sick.”

 

Peter lets out a breath.  “I…don’t feel very good.”

 

“Yeah, I bet.”  Tony shifts onto his knees beside the couch.  He palms Peter’s forehead again, then slides his fingers through his hair.  “I would say you should’ve told me sooner, but I don’t think that’s gonna do too much now, except make you feel worse, so…oh, well.”  He chuckles softly.  “I’m gonna stop talking now.”

 

Peter forces a smile. 

 

“Can I get you anything, kid?  Some water?  Or a blanket or something?”

 

“I’m…good,” Peter says, though his teeth are beginning to chatter.

 

Tony squints at him.  “You’re cold.”

 

“Yeah, I’m cold.”

 

“I’ll get you a blanket.”  Tony pats his shoulder before his footsteps pad down the hall.


	2. Peter's nauseous after patrol

By the time Peter gets back to the alley where he left his backpack, his knees are trembling.  He’s so tired.  He can barely hold the web as he rappels down the brick wall.  He almost falls over as his feet touch the ground.

He just has to change clothes and walk home.  Normally that takes under half an hour.  But today that may as well be a hundred years.  The headache that’s been nagging him all day is creeping past dizzying into the territory of nauseating.  

Peter pauses to get his bearings.  He braces one hand against the wall and breathes slowly.  He can see his backpack propped against a trash bin, right where he left it.  It seems like it’s sliding further and further away every time he blinks.  

Pressure explodes behind his sinuses, turning his stomach and igniting a break out of cold sweat across his forehead.  His mask soaks it up immediately, but the uncomfortable heat remains.  

Peter pulls the spandex up over his nose and mouth just in time to double over and retch.  Only spit and bile come up, but the tension in his jaw and bubbling in his stomach tell him the nausea is far from abating.  

He stumbles across the alley and shoves his backpack out of the way so he can lean against the bin with his head between his knees.  He has a feeling it’s going to be a long afternoon.


	3. Peter's nervous meeting Captain America

Peter’s just popped open a coke in the kitchen of the compound when running shoes squeak on the tile floor and someone comes barreling around the corner.  “Hey,” the person says breathlessly, opening the fridge.  

“Uh, hey,” Peter says awkwardly, stepping closer to the counter.  He takes a long sip of his soda and takes in the other man’s broad shoulders and short blonde hair.  He looks familiar, though the only time Peter’s seen him in person he was wearing his helmet and mask.

Steve shuts the fridge and breaks the seal on a bottle of water.  He nods at Peter and wipes sweat from his forehead.  He looks like he’s just come from the gym.  “You’re…training with Tony, right?” Steve asks.  “Um…Spider-Man?”

Peter frantically tries to swallow the coke in his mouth and nods.  “Mm-hm.”  

“I’m Steve.”

“Mm-hm.”  Captain America is talking to him.  Thrilled anxiety flutters in Peter’s stomach.

“Nice to meet you,” Steve says.

“Yeah, I—“  Peter intends to say something like I really look up to you, or I’ve always dreamed of meeting you, or I’ve seen videos of you in my gym class, but instead what comes out is a sick burp.  He quickly covers his mouth, but he gags on the next belch, and before he knows it, he’s thrown up all over his shoes.  And Steve’s.

“Oh my god,” Peter croaks, mortified.

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve laughs.  “It happens.”  He puts his hand on Peter’s shoulder.  “You ok?”

Peter can only look at him, awestruck, and nod.

 

_________________

 

“What happened?” Tony asks, looking the kid up and down.  “Is that puke all down your shirt?”

Peter sits gingerly on the edge of the couch and rests his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands.  “It’s all over the floor in the kitchen, too,” he mutters.

“Gross.”  Tony wrinkles his nose.  “You sick or something?  Go lie down in your room.  Don’t spread your germs to me.”  Tony holds up two screw drivers in an X in front of his body.

“I’d rather stay here and wallow in self-pity.”  Peter looks up at Tony, spots of pink blooming on his pale cheeks.  “Captain America totally saw me.”

“Aw, shit,” Tony says, but he can’t keep from laughing.  “That’s what you’re worried about?  Your reputation?”

“He asked if I was ok, and I couldn’t say anything.  I just ran!”  Peter digs the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“And are you?”  Tony raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah.  I mean, I just drank my coke too fast.  I’m not sick or anything.  Just…embarrassed,” Peter admits quietly.

“Huh.”  Tony pauses for a moment.  “Yeah, I got nothing.  You’re welcome to hide here for a while, but if you wanna work, you have to change first.  No contaminating the lab.”


	4. Peter has another concussion

Peter struggles to remember what he was just doing.  His vision is blurred, and that’s definitely not helping.  He curls his head toward his knees, then presses up on his elbow.

“Please don’t try to stand again.  That ended very badly the first time.”  A hand comes down on Peter’s shoulder and forces him back to the ground.

“Huh?”  Peter lets his head touch down on the hard ground.  Which hurts.  

“Do you…?”  There’s a pause, and Mr. Stark’s face swims into partial focus above him.  “Do you seriously not remember?”

“Um… no?”  How is he supposed to know if there’s a gap in his memory when, well, he can’t remember?  Peter has to let the thought go.  The complexity of it is making him nauseous.  

“Ok.  That’s not good,” Tony says.  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I don’t know…” Peter mumbles.  He scrubs his hands over his face until he meets his mask, rolled up to his hairline.  Mask means suit means mission.  Or at least he thinks he does.  “We’re…on a mission?”

“Hey, I wanted you to answer a question, not ask one.”  Tony shakes his head.  Watching him move makes Peter feel like he’s going to throw up.  “But we’ll save it for later, ok?  Just…hold tight and we’ll get you out of here.”


	5. Peter explains fanfiction to Tony

“Oh, god.  Geez.  That’s just gross.”  Peter darkens his phone’s screen, but he can still see the text of the story he’d just read.  It’ll probably stay imprinted on his eyeballs for the next decade.  “My god.  You can’t…” He shakes his head.  “I can’t deal.”  He drops his phone on the bedside table and throws his arm over his eyes.  “Ugh.”

“Wha?”  It comes from the hallway.  “You ok, kid?  FRIDAY, hit the lights.”

“Huh?”  Peter uncovers his eyes and sits up as the lamp on his bedside table flares to life.

“What’s going on?”  Tony stands in the doorway, dressed in a bathrobe.  “I was just passing by, and… you sick or something?”  He squints at Peter.

“I’m fine,” Peter says quickly.  “I was just…It doesn’t matter.  I’m fine.”  He feels himself blushing.

“You sure?”  Tony takes another step closer.  “Are you sick?  You look…really uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine,” Peter says again.  “I was just looking at something on my phone, and…”  He breaks off, shaking his head.

There’s a beat of silence.  “Oh.”  Tony looks like he’s fighting to keep a blank expression.

“What?”  Peter asks frantically.  ‘Mr. Stark, what—oh.  Oh. No, no, no.  Not that.  I was reading a fanfic, and it was really…not…what I thought it was gonna be.  Like the tags were all wrong for it…”

“Hold up, a what now?  Fan-fic?”  

“Like, fan fiction?”  Peter posits.  “For Star Wars…”

“Ok, I know what Star Wars is,” Tony says.

“Oh wow.  Oh geez.”  Peter grapples with words.  “So, you know like, movies and books and things that are, like, popular, and people, like, go on these websites and write stories about the characters and stuff?  But sometimes they’re really weird and have, like, things, between the characters, and nobody even ships them together anyway, and it’s super weird, and…ugh.”  He breaks off shaking his head.

“O…k,” Tony puts his hands up and steps back toward the door.  “Forget I asked, I guess.” He makes to leave, but pauses.  “Just…what do you mean ‘ships’?”


	6. Peter struggles to repair his suit

“Ok,” Tony says, pulling back the layer of fabric to expose the network of wires and circuits that criss-cross through Peter’s suit.  He takes a step back from the lab bench and nods to Peter.  “What do you see?”

A bunch of spaghetti, Peter thinks.  He’s always happy to be spending time in the lab with Mr. Stark, but today it feels more like a chore than an honor.  All he knows is that Karen keeps glitching, and the fix somehow lies in an adjustment to the microscopic hardware in front of him.  That and the fact that his head is absolutely killing him.

“Come on, what do you see?” Tony presses.

“Uh…”  Peter drums the tweezers in his hand against the tabletop, but cuts it out quickly when it only increases the throb between his eyes.  “I d—I really don’t know.”

“Geez, kid, it’s not that complicated.  You’ve seen this before,” Tony says.  He rolls his eyes and shoves Peter’s swivel chair with his foot.  

Peter hurriedly grips the edge of the lab bench so he doesn’t roll away.  “Sorry…”

“Don’t apologize.  Watch me do it.  You should be able to fix this by yourself next time.”

“Yeah.  Ok.  Sorry,” Peter pinches the bridge of his nose and digs for an ounce of concentration.  “I’m watching.”

“No, you’re not.”  There’s a clatter as Tony sets his tools down too.  “What’s wrong?”

Peter takes a deep breath and decides there’s no use denying it.  “I have a headache.”

“Oh.  And it’s bad, I’m assuming?  Otherwise you’d be powering through.”  His hand comes down on Peter’s shoulder.  “Let’s do this tomorrow.”


	7. Peter's carsick with Tony and Happy

“I’m not gonna throw up, for the last time,” Peter sighs.  He shifts in his seat and sets his mouth in a hard line.

“Really?  You’re sure?  I mean, Happy can pull over.”  He taps on the partition separating the backseat from the front.  “Can’t you?”

“Come on, Mr. Stark.  I’m fine.”  Peter gazes out at the scenery whizzing by.  From the highway, the trees and telephone poles start to blur together.  It’s raining, too, which isn’t helping.  It gives everything a dreary, soupy appearance.  And it makes Peter feel even more disgusting.  He swallows hard.  “I’m fine.”

“You know, if you really were fine, I don’t think you’d be trying to convince me so hard,” Tony says.  He feels around in the pocket on the door for a moment, then gets Happy’s attention again.  “Do you have plastic bags in the glove box or something?”

“Mr. Stark.  Come on.”  A hiccup eats off the end of Peter’s word, and he swallows frantically again to get everything back under control.  

“Kid…”

“Yeah, ok, so I’m a little bit, I don’t know, queasy or whatever.”  Peter feels his cheeks flush with embarrassment.  Or maybe he’s just sweating.  “That does not mean I’m going to puke.”

“I’d still rather be safe than sorry,” Tony says.  

The partition rolls down, and Happy tosses a wadded up shopping bag into Tony’s lap.  He gets both hands back on the wheel, and the car moves side to side as he avoids drifting out of the lane.

The movement doesn’t help Peter’s delicate predicament, and he claps his hand over his mouth before the inevitable happens.

“Geez, kid,” Tony says, shaking open the bag.  “What did I say?”


	8. Peter has appendicitis

Peter leans on the edge of the lab bench, watching Tony adjust the wiring in his Spider-Man suit.  

Tony looks up, an expression of annoyance crossing his face.  “Hey, why are you standing there?  What did I tell you to bring me?”

“I, uh,” Peter stutters.  His stomach’s been hurting all day.  He doesn’t know why he’s here, really.  He can’t concentrate.  “I don’t remember.”

“Well, I don’t remember either.”  Tony sets down the pair of pliers and squints at Peter.  “You alright, kid?  I mean, it’s normal for me to forget stuff like that, but I feel like that’s kinda out of character for you.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”  But at that moment, Peter’s stomach decides to cramp again, sending a lance of pain through his side.  He bites his lip and tries to snake his arm around his middle as casually as he can.  

“You sure?”  Tony cocks his head.  “No offense, but you don’t look that good.”

Peter’s about to protest, but nausea rises hot and fast, and he doesn’t get the chance to say anything before he has to sprint into the bathroom.  He retches hard, leaning on the tank of the toilet with one hand while he presses the other to the throbbing spot by his hip.  

When he surfaces, Peter sees Tony in the doorway.  

“Sorry…Mr. Stark,” he pants.  

Tony shrugs and purses his lips.  He looks from Peter’s face to his protective posture.  “Is that where it hurts?  Down on your right side?”

“Um.  Yeah,” Peter says, surprised.  “Why…?”

Tony holds up a hand to quiet him.  “FRIDAY, you wanna get me a list of New York emergency rooms, filtered by wait time?”  He shakes his head at Peter.  “We’re taking a field trip.”


	9. That one scene from Infinity War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR INFINITY WAR
> 
> The part where Peter says, "I don't feel so good."

It hits him first as a giddiness.  A swooping feeling roots through Peter’s stomach, rattling a breeze through is ribcage.  At first he thinks it’s the gravity on this planet making his head heavy and his core weak.  Then he thinks he’s going to throw up.  

“Mr. Stark…?” Peter chokes.  His legs are barely holding him up.  What’s happening?  He scrambles for what he knows.  Panic braids into the sinews around his spine.  Vertigo feeds up through the base of his skull.  His jaw goes loose.  “I don’t feel so good.”

A cold tingle starts in Peter’s hands and feet.  He tries to move his fingers, but there’s only numbness.  There isn’t even that.  Peter takes a step and stumbles.  It’s as if he doesn’t have feet.  

He falls into Tony’s chest.  Peter hears his mouth opening and closing, feels his armor expand and contract.  “You’re alright,” Tony finally murmurs.  

Peter knows Tony’s arms are around him, but he can barely feel the gentle pressure.  Icy soreness spreads behind his face, fracturing his vision into disconnected panes.  “I don’t… I don’t know what’s happening,” Peter whispers, desperate to at least understand what his body is doing.  Because he knows he’s not going to be able to stop it.

“I don’t…  I don’t want to go, Mr. Stark.”  He’s crying.  Peter can’t feel the tears rolling down his cheeks, but his chest quakes.  His mouth is dry, his throat constricted.  He can barely breathe.

Tony’s crying too.  The sounds of his clipped exhales pierce Peter’s heart.  His chest hurts.  It would hurt if he could feel it.  He knows Tony isn’t letting go, but the sensation is getting further and further away.  

“Please…”  He’s slipping.  “Please…I don’t want to go Mr. Stark…”  Peter takes a ragged breath, but the air passes through him.  It carries his frantic whispers until they settle into a thin dust of silence.


	10. The Tony and Peter ER headcanon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony takes Peter to the ER.

“Alright, kid.  Here.  Sit down.”  Tony bundles Peter into the hard plastic seat, extricating Peter’s arm from over his shoulder.  “Ok.  Sit tight.”  

He hurries to the front desk, ignoring the fact that he’s still wearing his Iron Man suit, and everybody is staring at him.  “I’ve gotta check him in,” Tony says, slightly breathless.  He inclines his head toward the kid, who’s hunched over now, one holding his head, and the other his ribs.

“What happened?” the woman behind the counter asks, one eyebrow cocked as if she’s ready for an unbelievable story.

“Oh, you know, just a normal evening of fighting crime, and the kid took a fall.”  Tony tears his eyes away from Peter to look back at the nurse.  “Do I have to, like fill something out for him?”

“Here.”  The woman shoves a clipboard at him, still giving Tony a wary look.  

“Yeah, just put it down.”   The woman obliges, and Tony grabs it from the counter, along with a pen with a flower on the end.  “Right.”  He runs back to Peter’s side.

“How you feeling, kid?”  Tony scribbles Peter’s name at the top of the form.

Peter groans, and moves his hand from the flat of his ribcage to his stomach.  “I don’t feel good.”

“Like, what kind of don’t feel good?”  Tony squints at the form.  “What do you want me to write on here, besides that you should listen to me when I tell you you can’t make a jump.”

“I…yeah, I—” the kid starts, but he cuts himself off with a gag.

“Whoa, alright.”  Tony hovers his hand over Peter’s shoulder.  “Hey,” he calls to a passing nurse.  “Can you get him one of those things to puke in?”

Peter retches into his lap before the nurse comes back with a pink basin, but the next, more productive heave is contained.  

“Geez, kid, what did you eat?”  Tony asks, wrinkling his nose.

“I…I don’t remember,” the kid mutters, catching a breath before he throws up again.

“You don’t…? Is that memory loss?  Do you want me to write that down on here?”  He jabs the point of the flower pen at the form.

“I, no, I’m fine…”

“You’re definitely not fine.  I think you have a concussion and broken ribs, but what do I know?”  It comes out louder than Tony meant it to.  Everyone who wasn’t already staring definitely is now.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter whispers.  There’s spit running down his chin.  He sounds like he’s about to cry.

Tony sighs.  “No, it’s ok, kid.”  He gives Peter a pat on the back and looks down at the next question.  “Are you allergic to any medications?”

The kid weakly shakes his head.

“Good.”  Tony writes it down.  “I don’t like seeing you in pain.  I hope they give you some of the good stuff…”


	11. Peter calls Tony because May's out of town

“An incoming call from Mr. Parker, sir,” FRIDAY reports.

“Hm?”  Tony looks up from the faceplate he’s working on and sets his screwdriver down on the lab bench.  “What does he want?”  He isn’t sure why, but something’s compelling him to sit up and pay attention.

“I’m not equipped to screen your calls, sir.”

“Fair enough.”  Tony shrugs.  “Am I expecting a call from him?”

“You have no appointments on your calendar until Monday at 3pm,” the AI says.  “Though between you and Mr. Hogan, an average of three texts or calls from Mr. Parker are received every 24 hours.”

So it should be nothing to worry about.  It doesn’t change the fact that he’s…worried.  “Ok, ok, enough statistics.  Put him on.”

There’s a quiet click as the line connects.  Then, “Mr. Stark?” the kid’s voice rings out.

“Yeah?” Tony replies.  “What’s up.”

“Oh.  Um.  I just…I just wanted to…”  Peter’s voice sounds off.  Like he’s in a tunnel or something.

“Where are you?” Tony demands.  “Are you stuck somewhere?”

“What?  No!” the kid quickly replies.  “I just, um.”  He pauses again.  Then his words come in a rush.  “My aunt’s on a trip and I’m home alone and I really don’t feel good.”

“Oh.”  It’s not what Tony expected.  “Are you in any danger?”

“No,” Peter says.  Tony wonders if the phone connection is bad or if the kid is tearing up.  “I threw up.”

Tony cringes.  “Oh.  Um.  Ok.  Do you, uh, still feel really bad?”

“Yeah,” Peter admits.  “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Stark.  I wanted to call Aunt May, but she can’t afford to miss the trip, it’s really important for her big promotion, and—”  The kid cuts off with a sick noise, and Tony squeezes his eyes shut.  He quickly tucks in the exposed wires on his faceplate and fits it into his helmet.

“Peter?  Hey, you listening to me?”  Tony asks as he suits up.  “I’m on my way, ok?  You just…hold tight.  Don’t drown in the toilet water or anything.”

Peter coughs, then laughs weakly.  “I…you really don’t have to come, Mr. Stark.”

Tony hovers a foot off the ground, preparing to exit through the skylight.  “Yeah, I do.  I’ll be there in 10 minutes, tops.  Can you hold tight till then?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, ok,” the kid says.  “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Tony replies as he shoots off at top speed.


	12. Peter faints from an adrenaline crash

 

“You ok, kid?”

 

“Huh?  What?”  Peter hurriedly straightens up, lifting his chin from his hands and blinking at Mr. Stark through the eyes of his mask.

 

“You alright?” Tony repeats.

 

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Peter says, fighting vertigo from his sudden movement.  “I’m good.  I’m fine.”  He looks around at the lunchtime commuters populating the subway car.  Everyone’s minding their own business for the time being, but Peter can’t shake a feeling of paranoia.  “You don’t have to ride with me.  I can take care of myself on the subway.”

 

“I know you can,” Tony says, retracting his faceplate so Peter can see the sincere, if not slightly exasperated, look on his face.  “But you’re spun up.  You’re shaky.  I want to make sure you get home ok.”

 

“I’m not…” Peter protests, clamping his hands between his knees to hide the obvious tremor.  “I’m fine.”

 

“You know, you keep saying that, and I keep not quite believing you.”

 

Peter starts to contradict him again, but Tony cuts him off.  “It’s nothing against you.  But if you get hurt during internship activities, then I could be held liable, and I don’t want that kind of mark on my reputation.  The company really doesn’t need any more legal troubles.”

 

“Oh.”  Peter senses a story there, and he’s tempted to ask Mr. Stark to elaborate.  A wave of dizzying rises in his chest, though, and Peter drops his forehead back into his palms.  He wonders if he’s going to throw up.

 

“See, this is why I’m worried,” Tony sighs, patting Peter on the shoulder.  The coolness of his metal glove feels good. “You’ve got some serious sweat stains going.  You look sick.  What’s up?”

 

“We just finished a mission,” Peter mutters.  “I’m hot.  I have…adrenaline… or whatever.”

 

“Alright, I’ll back off,” Tony says, holding up his hands.  “But you’d tell me if something was wrong?  You know I have issues with anxiety, right?”

 

“Yeah, Mr. Stark.”  Peter swallows hard.  “Of course.”  The train slows to a stop, and Peter uses the pole in front of him to haul himself to his feet.  It’s a five-minute walk from the station up to his apartment; he hopes he can make it inside before he…

 

“…kid…?”

 

Peter peels his eyes open and immediately regrets it.  Flourescent subway lights make his eyes burn.  He starts to sit up, but the force of nausea and a strong hand on his shoulder push him back to the ground.  “Stay down.  You’re not getting up and falling over again, you hear me?”

 

“Ugh.  Yeah,” Peter groans. 

 

“You should’ve told me you felt sick.”  Tony leans over him, his mouth set in a frown and concern lining his eyes.

 

“I’m ok, I just…” Peter mumbles, rubbing his eyes through the mask.  He can feel sweat collecting on his temples as his throat tightens up.

 

“No, you’re not.  I’m in charge now, like I should’ve been from the beginning.”  Tony shakes his head.  “You’re gonna sit still until I can get you something to perk your blood sugar back up.  And you need to be honest with me.  Like, always.”

 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter breathes.  “I think I’m gonna throw up.”  He gags and fights to get his quivering fingers under the bottom of his mask. 

 

“Oh geez.  Ok,” Tony says, cringing.  “But, good.  Communication.  That’s the key.”


	13. Tony has a migraine when Peter comes to work in the lab

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter says as he enters the lab.  “What’re we working on today?”

Tony’s slumped over the lab bench.  At first Peter thinks he’s working intently.  Then a groan carries across the room, and Peter realizes his head is resting on his crossed arms.

“Mr. Stark?”

“Who let you in?” Tony asks, his voice muffled.

“Uh…FRIDAY?”  Peter cautiously approaches.  He wonders if Tony’s hurt.  The he wonders if he’s drunk.  “Are you ok?”

“Great, kid.  Just great…”

“Was that supposed to be funny?”  Peter’s definitely worried now.  “’Cause that wasn’t funny.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t…”  Tony rolls his head to the side so half his face is visible.  He squints at Peter.

“Are you sick or something?”  Peter reaches into his pocket for his phone.  “Do you want me to call somebody?”

“Enough with the questions,” Tony says, turning back to the table.  “I’m fine.  Just a headache.  Comes with the territory.”

“I’m not an expert,” Peter says, “But this doesn’t seem like a normal headache.”

“I would’ve called and told you not to come today, but…”  Tony shrugs.

“No, I’m kind of glad I came.”  Peter hovers at Tony’s shoulder.  “Do you need help getting to bed or something?”

“I’m comfortable here.”

“Really?”

Tony lifts his head and shoots Peter a half-lidded glare.  “What did I say about questions?  And yeah, I’m…”  Tony swallows heavily. His face goes ashen.  “Shit,” he mumbles.  He shoves himself up, sending his swivel chair rocketing backward as he makes a break for the bathroom.

Peter cringes as he hears Tony retching.  “Mr. Stark?  What do you want me to do?”

“Just go home, kid,” Tony chokes in between heaves.  “I’m ok.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”  Peter peers through the doorway at Tony’s trembling frame.

“Well, I don’t have any better ones.”  Tony rests his forehead on the toilet seat.  “Don’t come in here,” he says, glancing up at Peter.  “And definitely don’t tell Pepper.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Peter says.  “Do you want me to, uh, wait out here?”

“I’m not getting rid of you, am I?”

“Um.  No,” Peter replies.

“Then find something to entertain yourself.  Don’t just stand there and watch.”  He gags again.  “I think…I might be a while.”

“Really?  Like, whatever I want?”  Peter looks around the lab, his eyes widening.

“No loud noises.  Or fire.  Or sharp things.  Until I can, you know, supervise,” Tony coughs.

Peter nods.  “Sure thing.”


	14. Peter's acrobatics get the better of him

It’s not exactly possible to take a taxi on a high-speed chase in the height of rush hour traffic.  The police are already in pursuit about a hundred yards back in the gridlock, so the presence of the Avengers is more for show than anything else. 

 

Peter had been sitting on the steps in front of his apartment building, fighting a headache and an algebra problem, when Mr. Stark had flown past in full Iron Man regalia and invited him to join the party.

 

“What if I zig-zag across the street with my webs on the street lamps while you fly straight ahead?” Peter suggests, swinging over the traffic.

 

“Why?  This isn’t gonna take a lot of stealth or precision.  It’s a stolen cab, not the plot of an evil genius.”

 

Peter lands in a crouch on the sidewalk and shrugs.  “Might get some good photos of us together.  You know, like, in action.”

 

“You’re still into that?  The planted cameras and stuff?” 

 

“Um.  Yeah?”

 

“Geez, kid…”  Tony shakes his head.  “Alright.  But only ‘cause this dude is literally right in front of us.”  He gestures to the rogue cab, honking its horn and weaving imprecisely through the packed lanes.

 

“Awesome!”  Peter sizes up the distance to a van parked on the curb and leaps onto the hood before launching a web and swinging over the cars again. 

 

“If you bang into me, there will be consequences,” Tony says, initiating a flight path above the center lane of traffic.

 

“Duly noted,” Peter calls to him.  He releases his web and rides momentum across the street before catching himself with a line to the next street lamp.  He repeats the action and crosses the street again, this time somersaulting over Tony’s back.

 

As soon as the feeling of free fall blooms in his stomach, Peter shoots a web.  He aims for a telephone pole directly in front of him, but he’s suddenly too dizzy to see straight.  The web misses its target, and Peter catches his shoulder on the roof rack of an SUV.  He bounces to the ground on his knees, and he barely feels the impact before vomit explodes into his throat. 

 

Peter scrabbles at his mask and pushes it up over his mouth just in time to heave onto the sidewalk. 

 

“What the heck?  Kid?”  There’s a clunk as Tony lands a few feet away.  “What happened?”

 

Peter retches again, then breaks off coughing.  His head pounds in time with his rapid heartbeat.  “I’m…I’m ok,” he chokes.

 

“Um, no, you’re not,” Tony counters, giving Peter a pat on the back.  “Did you stir yourself up or something?  Drink too much coke?”

 

Peter weakly shakes his head.  “I, uh, wasn’t feeling that great before…”  He uses his glove to wipe his mouth.  “Like, a headache and stuff.”

 

“You’re not supposed to fight crime when you have headaches and stuff.”

 

“But evil doesn’t take days off,” Peter protests, swallowing a sick belch. 

 

“Stolen cabs aren’t that evil,” Tony says, looking over his shoulder.  A policeman on a motorcycle is pulling up beside the vehicle in question. “And it looks like the cops have it handled.  For once.”

 

“Hm.”

 

“I’m taking you home.”  Tony leaves no room for argument.  He grabs Peter under the arms and hoists him to his feet.

 

“Whoa, hold on,” Peter gasps, scrabbling for a handhold.  Nausea spikes again, and he spits up another mouthful of bile. 

 

“Alright, get it all up first,” Tony sighs.  “Then I’m taking you home.”


	15. Peter panics in front of Shuri

“Rogue One is a spinoff, but it’s really good,” Peter explains, pressing the button for the crosswalk.  “Solo is more embedded in the canon, but it really sucks.  I mean, they really should’ve just left that alone.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Shuri laughs.  “I didn’t want to see it when it came to theaters.  I think I’ll stay away.”  

The light changes, and they step into the crosswalk.  “Don’t get me wrong, the effects and stuff are great.  And the…what do you call it?  Set design, or whatever?  It’s really cool.  But the story…”  He shakes his head.  “It’s, like, a weird space western.”

“It sounds very odd.”

“Which Star Wars is your favorite?” Peter asks.

Shuri opens her mouth to reply, but the sound of a honking car horn and screeching tires buts her off.  “Look out!” she shouts, grabbing Peter’s wrist and yanking him toward the opposite sidewalk.

“Outta my way!” the cab driver yells out his window, giving them a dirty look.

“You could’ve killed us!” Shuri screeches at him, flipping the bird.

Peter pulls his arm from Shuri’s grip and backs up until he hits the wall of the nearest building.  His heart thuds against his ribcage, and his breath comes in gasps as if he’s been running.

“Peter?”  Shuri rematerializes at his shoulder.  “Are you alright?”

He wants to answer, but his chest is tight and his throat feels constricted.  Peter yaks the collar of his shirt down a few inches, but it does nothing.  Clammy sweat breaks out over his forehead, and nausea rises from his stomach.  He can’t even warn Shuri before he gags, dropping his hands to his thighs and bracing himself as he throws up all over the pavement between his shoes.

“It’s ok,” she says awkwardly patting him on the back.  “Are you ill?  Or…?”

“It’s, uh,” Peter gasps.  “Just sometimes…I have a thing…like, about death…”  Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, and he’s not sure if he wants to sob or gag again.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Shuri says softly.  “Let’s just go home.”  She glances down the block, her eyes alighting on a 7-11.  “Or we could get a soda?”

“Yeah.”  Peter wipes his sleeve across his cheeks.  “Ok.”


	16. Ned assumes Peter had an exciting night

Peter sighs as he hefts his backpack off his shoulder and swings it around the front of his body.  He stares at the books in his locker.  He knows exactly what he needs; he goes through the same motions every day.  It’s just now that he’s thinking about it that he’s drawing a blank.

“Hey, man.”  Ned bounds up to Peter and elbows him in the ribs.

“Oof.”  The jab is playful, but Peter’s not expecting it, and it knocks the wind out of him.  His backpack drops from his grip, and he barely succeeds in grabbing the strap before it hits the floor.

“Whoa,” Ned says, holding his hands up and taking a step backward.  “Dude.  You ok?”

“Mm-hm.”  Peter straightens up and returns his hazy focus to his books.  “’M fine.”  He sniffles and drags his sleeve under his nose.

“You look kinda…shitty,” Ned says.

“Oh.  Huh.”  Peter steals a glance at his reflection in the small mirror inside his locker door.  He hadn’t thought he was quite so pale as he was brushing his teeth this morning.

“I mean…are those dark circles or bruises under your eyes?”  Ned leans in closer as he whispers, “Were you…you know…out last night?”

“Out?”  It doesn’t click with Peter.

“You know.  Doing, like, super secret hero things?”

“No.”  Peter pulls his chemistry book from the lineup and drops it into his bag.  “I was doing homework.  And, like, sleeping.”

“I think there was something on the news about a thing in Hell’s Kitchen,” Ned goes on.  “Were you part of that?  Did somebody get arrested.”

“Why would I be in Hell’s Kitchen?”  Peter scans his books again, sure he’s missing something important.  “That’s way far away.”

“Were you in a fight?  Was it with a robber?  Or a murderer?”

“Dude.  Come on.”  Peter’s head throbs, and she squints as he turns to look at Ned.  “Nothing happened, ok?  I’m just sick.”  His nose drips again, and he digs in his pocket for a crumpled Kleenex.

“Why are you at school, then?” Ned asks incredulously.  “You could be at home watching The Price is Right.”

“Nah,” Peter says thickly.  He blows his nose, then drops the soggy tissue into his bag.  He grabs a binder and a notebook without looking at them and jiggles the backpack’s zipper shut.  “We have a test.  In…second period.  I mean, third period.”

Ned shakes his head.  “You really do look like shit.”

“I kinda feel like shit,” Peter mumbles.  He slams his locker, wincing as the loud clatter sends a stabbing pain through his forehead.

“Then go to the nurse.”

“No…”  Peter throws his bag over his shoulder, then leans against the bank of lockers so he doesn’t feel its weight.  “I can make it.  I’m Spider-Man, remember?”


	17. Steve looks after a sick Peter

“Do you need anything?” Steve asks, leaning against the door frame of Peter’s room.  “Tony left me a note, but I don’t know if I trust him…”

“What does it say?” Peter asks thickly, wiping his nose.

“That you’ve had a fever since last night, and you’re taking ibuprofen every 4 hours.”

Peter nods.  “That’s about right.”  He lobs his used kleenex into the trash can at the foot of his bed.  “I’m really ok.  It’s just a bad cold.”

“I had that kind of thing a lot growing up,” Steve says, crumpling the note into his pocket.  “You want some orange juice?  Or some ice cream?”

Peter shrugs.  “I’m not really hungry.”

“But your stomach’s ok?” Steve asks, suddenly concerned again.

“Yeah,” Peter assures him, reaching for another tissue.  

“You should eat something though.  When you feel up to it.”

“Maybe in a little while.”  

“Alright.”  Steve lets the issue drop.“You doing ok?  Tony didn’t really want to leave you, but they needed his skillset for the mission.”

“Yeah, I’m used to taking care of myself,” Peter says.  

Steve can’t help but grin.  “I think I said that a lot too.”  He drums his fingers on the wall.  “I’ll let you be for a while.  But you’re not alone, alright?  Just call if you need something.”

“Ok,” Peter says.  “Thanks, Captain Rogers.”

“Please,” Steve laughs.  “It’s Steve.”


	18. Peter gives Tony a fright when he says he doesn't feel good

“Mr. Stark?”

“Huh?”  Tony doesn’t look up from the e-mail he’s skimming.  He reaches for his coffee cup.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks again.

“Are we out of Pop Tarts or something?  Find something else to have for breakfast.”

“Oh.”  Peter hesitates.  “I don’t feel so good.”

Tony raises his head so quickly he cricks his neck.  “What did you say?”  His heart pounds against his ribcage, and his chest goes tight.  His breath goes quick and shallow as he grabs the kid’s shoulder.

“I–” Peter gags, clapping both hands over his mouth.  He bends at the waist, and mucous and bile drip between his fingers.

“Jesus…”  Tony jumps backward, but keeps one hand on Peter.  “Ok.  Yeah.  You’re sick,” he mutters.  “Ok.  It’s ok.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter chokes.  “I just–my stomach–” He heaves again.

“Yeah, got it,” Tony says.  “You just, uh, caught me off guard there.”  He pats Peter’s arm.  “FRIDAY, get Dumm-E to clean this up.  And, uh, maybe call Pepper.  She’s way better at this than I am.”

“I’m really sorry,” Peter repeats.

“It’s ok, kid,” Tony says, as much for himself as for Peter.  “You’re gonna be fine.”


	19. Shuri's sick when she and Peter are working on a project

“So, uh, this is the formula I started with for my web fluid,” Peter says, writing it across the top of a sheet of paper.  “At first I could only use stuff I stole from my school’s science lab, but then Mr. Stark hooked me up with some real supplies, so then I could play around with it more.”

“Did it work?” Shuri asks.  “I don’t doubt you, but I wouldn’t think that combination would be too effective.” 

“Honestly, it wasn’t great,” Peter admits.  “I kind of thought it was, at the time, but what I’m working with now is, like, 100 times better.”  He grins and starts to scribble down the improved formula.  “So this is what I have now, but I still think it could be improved.”

“Hm…”  Shuri watches his pencil scratch up and down for a moment.  She tries to concentrate, but her gurgling stomach distracts her.  It’s been unsettled since breakfast, but now faint nausea feeds up toward her throat.

“I have a couple ideas, but I though, you know, since you’re the expert…”  Peter trails off, holding his pencil out to Shuri.

“No, what are your ideas?” she asks.  Anything to keep him talking.  Shuri’s stomach flips, and she hears it groan.  She wraps her arm around her abdomen under the desk.

“You ok?” Peter asks.  It’s small comfort that he doesn’t look up from the notes he’s writing.

“Oh, yes,” Shuri says, suddenly embarrassed.  She glances up at the clock, wondering how long Peter intends to spend on this task.  She swallows hard and grits her teeth.  “I’m fine.”


	20. Peter gets the wind knocked out of him

“Go get ‘em, kid,” Tony says, pointing at the fleeing criminal.  “He’s all yours.”

“Ok,” Peter says, steeling himself up.  “Ok.”  He takes off at a run and prepares to shoot a web, ignoring how much his hands are shaking.  He hears the web hit something and assumes it’s safe to swing on.  His feet barely leave the ground when something breaks, and before he knows what’s happened, he’s on his back.

Everything’s fuzzy for a moment, then Mr. Stark’s face appears above him, his mask up and his eyes wide.  “Are you ok?”

Peter means to say yes, he’s fine, but he has no breath.  He tries to draw in a lungful of air, but all he gets is a sharp pain wrapping around his ribs.  

“Ok, easy.”  Tony clumsily pats his shoulder.  Peter rolls onto his side, hacking.

“Breathe, kid,” Tony says.  “Tell me what hurts.”

“Ugh,” Peter groans.  He tries to breathe in slowly, but he’s oxygen starved, and he can’t keep from gasping.  It’s too much, and his eyes water from the pain.

“Are you having an asthma attack or something?”  Panic rises in Tony’s voice.  “Am I supposed to know about pre-existing conditions?  Did you fill out a form or something?”

“What?” Peter coughs.

“Nevermind.”  Tony supports him to a sitting position and bows Peter’s spine so his forehead rests on his knees.

Dizziness flares again, and Peter hacks until he gags.  

“You’re gonna be ok,” Tony says.  “And if you’re not, please don’t hold me liable.”

“I…I won’t.”  Peter spits out a mouthful of bile and lifts his head.  He swipes the back of his hand under his streaming eyes.

“Are you crying?” Tony asks incredulously.  “Puking, I can deal with.  Crying, I’m not so sure.”

“I’m ok,” Peter murmurs.  “I promise.”


	21. Peter's dizzy while hanging out with Shuri

“I like shopping, but why do people hang out here?” Shuri asks, looking around at the crowds of teenagers milling around the mall.  

“I don’t know,” Peter says.  “Maybe the food?”  They pass a pretzel stand, and the smell of yeast and mustard is overpowering.  Ordinarily it would be appetizing, but today Peter wrinkles his nose.  The dim mall lighting is doing a number on his head.

“Which store is your favorite?”

“Huh?”  Peter rubs at his eye.  

“I said, which store is your favorite?  I want to go there,” Shuri says.  She narrow her eyes slightly, as if she knows something’s up.

“Oh.  Uh, I like the lego store,” Peter says.  “It’s kinda kids stuff, though, so…” He trails off.

“It sounds fun, though,” Shuri says.  “But, are you alright?  Do you want to leave?”

“I’m fine,” Peter says too quickly.  In all honesty, he feels weird.  Exhausted, yet energized.  He’s been buzzing with anticipation and ideas for projects, and sleep’s evaded him for the past few nights.  Starbucks has kept him running, but now he’s afraid he’s running out of steam.  The heavy blur hanging around the edges of his vision can’t be a good sign.

“The lego store…” Shuri pauses to examine the large map encased in a pillar in the middle of the mall’s walkway.  “It’s downstairs.”

“Hm.  Yeah,” Peter agrees without really listening.  He reaches out with one hand to lean against the glowing plastic pylon, but he must’ve misjudged, because he goes tumbling.

“Peter!” Shuri shrieks, reaching for his arm to keep him from hitting the ground.

“I’m ok,” Peter says automatically.  

“No, you’re not.”

Dizziness hits hard, and Peter covers his eyes and takes a slow breath.  “Ok, maybe I’m not,” he admits.

“We’re definitely leaving,” Shuri decides.  “We’ll come back later.  Once you’re better.”


	22. Peter needs May to cuddle him when he's ill

May knocks on the door.  “Pete?  You ok?”  She turns the knob and peers inside.  “I called you for dinner 10 minutes ago.”

“Oh.”  Peter’s curled on his side on his bed, his knees tucked against his chest.

“This is so unlike you.”  May sidesteps a pile of legos and dirty clothes and perches on the edge of the mattress.  “You feeling ok?”

“’M just…tired,” Peter murmurs.

“Ok?”  May isn’t convinced.  She brushes Peter’s cheek with the backs of her knuckles.  When she feels the heat coming off him, she goes in with a palm to his forehead.  “You’re boiling.  Why didn’t you say something?”

Peter shrugs.  Then he shifts down the bed so his head’s in May’s lap.  

“Aw, Pete.”  May cups his chin.  “You’re never too big to cuddle, ok?”

“Thanks, May.” Peter whispers.


	23. Peter struggles to function due to a fever

“Ok.”  Peter looks at the diagram on the holographic screen hovering in front of him.  “Ok…”

It should be simple enough.  The wiring in his suit exactly matches the picture.  Following the steps to re-route his systems should be something he’s able to do with his eyes closed.

Peter blinks hard and tries to clear the fog from his mind.  He’s cold.  His skin is hot.  The throb going behind his forehead makes it hard to look at anything without it going fuzzy around the edges.  The tweezers Peter’s holding slip from his fingers and hit the lab bench with a clatter.  

“Whoops.”  Peter opens his eyes and snatches them up again.  He quickly looks down at his project again.

“How’s it coming?” Tony asks from across the room, engrossed in updates to his own armor. 

“It’s, uh, it’s coming,” Peter waffles.  He carefully disconnects a wire, but his hand is shaking too much to do much else.

Footsteps approach, and Peter quickly moves another wire, trying to look busy.

“Hey.”  Tony pulls the tweezers from Peter’s grip.  He pushes Peter’s hair off his forehead and presses the backs of his fingers to his clammy skin.  “Trouble concentrating?” he asks.

“Um,” Peter starts.

“It’s ok,” Tony says.  “I wouldn’t expect you to be firing on all cylinders when you’re well, on fire.”  He smiles at his own joke.  “How long you had that fever? And don’t lie, or I’ll have FRIDAY pull the data on your body temperature.”

“All day, I guess,” Peter admits.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.”

“Well, you’re benched for the rest of the day,” Tony says, turning off the screen and pushing Peter’s suit away from him.  “But don’t be sorry.  It’s really fine.”


	24. Sniffly Peter drives Tony crazy

Peter drags his sleeve under his dripping nose.  “So, I connect this wire?” he asks, pointing to the exposed fibers in his suit, which is laid out on the lab bench between them.  As he waits for Tony to respond, his nose begins to leak again, and he sniffles loudly.  

“Huh?”  Tony looks up from his tablet.  Peter tries to read the text upside down, and he thinks he sees Pepper’s name in the To: line.  

“Oh, um.”  Peter clears his throat of phlegm.  “I put these two wires together?”  He tries not to sniff again, but his nose feels wet and itchy at the same time.  He swipes his knuckles under it as quickly as he can.

“Yeah, the two that look like they’re supposed to go together?” Tony says, a note of obviousness in his tone.  “And stop doing that.”  He flaps his hand in Peter’s direction.  “Use a tissue.  Stop spreading germs.”

“Yeah, ok, Mr. Stark.”  Peter lowers his head and gets back to work, but within a minute he’s sniffling again.

“Jesus, kid.”

“I’ll try not to do it!,” Peter says quickly.  “I promise.”

He barely breathes as he joins the two wires.  Thin mucous shivers at the edge of one nostril threatening to fall.  Peter turns his face into his shoulder to muffle the sound of the sniff.

“Kid…”  Tony’s chair scrapes as he rolls it across the floor.  He slams a box of kleenex down on the lab bench beside Peter’s elbow.  “Please?”


	25. Tony overhears Peter talking to his boyfriend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a spinoff of my Spiderverse 2.0, in which Peter is gay and struggles with an ED.

“Stop,” Peter giggles into his phone.  “No, you stop.”

_“Stop what?”_

“Stop making me laugh so much.  I’m gonna wake everyone up.”

_“You gonna come over tonight?”_

“You know I can’t,” Peter sighs.  “I wish, but I’m going on a mission tomorrow.  And I’m upstate.”

_“You could still come.”_

“It would take a really long time.  And I’d be all sweaty by the time I got there.”

_“I like you sweaty.”_

“Aw, shut up,” Peter laughs.  “Quit being all cute.”

_“No, you quit it.”_

“I’m serious,” Peter says.  “I’ll see you at school on Monday.”

_“Ok.  Fine.  I love you.”_

“Love you too.”  Suddenly there’s a knock on Peter’s bedroom door.  “I’ll call you back.”  He drops his phone into the sheets, but it bounces to the floor.  “Come in!” he says in a rush.

“Hey, kid.”  Peter recognizes Tony’s silhouette, wrapped in a bathrobe and holding a glass of water.  

“Hey,” Peter says, wishing he could rid the anxiety from his voice.

“Can’t sleep?” Tony asks.

“Yeah.  I’m, uh, nervous.”  Peter looks down at his phone on the floor.  The screen is dark.  He can’t tell whether it fell face up or face down.  “Or, um, excited.”

“Excited is good,” Tony says.  “Nervous can be good, too, but not if it’s keeping you up.”  He takes a step into the room.  “Do yo want to talk about it?  I thought I heard–?”

“No, it’s fine.  I’m fine,” Peter says.  “I was just… I’ll go to sleep now.”

The Star Wars theme begins to play loudly, and Peter’s phone lights up in the space between the bed and the nightstand.  It’s Harry’s ringtone.  The screen flashes Harry’s name.  And Harry’s picture.  The shirtless one from the pool party last weekend.  

Peter scrambles to pick it up, but Tony’s closer, and his hand closes around the device.  A panicked squeak escapes Peter’s lips, and his heart stops as he watches Tony glance down at the display, his face illuminated in the phone’s blueish glow.

How much had he heard?  And how much trouble is Peter in?  His heart thuds in his chest, inching up into his throat.

“Harry, huh?”  The ringtone ends, and the call goes to voicemail.  Peter can’t see Tony’s face anymore, but the mattress sinks a couple inches as he perches on the edge of the bed.

“Um.  Yeah.”  Peter chews nervously on his thumbnail.  

“You guys, uh, going together?  That’s what they called it when I was your age, but I’m pretty sure times have changed.  Like, a lot.  Not that I’m old.”

“Um.”  Peter hesitates.  He’s sure his cheeks are burning in the darkness.

“It’s fine, you know,” Tony says.  “You’re, what, sixteen now?  I’d be more worried if you weren’t seeing someone.”  He gives Peter’s shoulder a squeeze.

“Really?”

“Yeah.  Now I have a chance to give you all my good advice.  It should all still apply.  Use protection.  Don’t be late for dates.  Don’t eat before you go on the roller coaster.  And if he says ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ it’s probably you.”  There’s a glint in the darkness as Tony grins.

Peter lets out a relieved chuckle.  “Ok.  I’l remember that.”

“Good.”  Tony stands up.  “Call him back.  Then get some sleep.”


	26. Peter and Tony argue, and Peter has to tell Tony he's sick

“Mr. Stark?”

“Huh?”  Tony doesn’t look up from the schematic he’s building on the holographic screen in front of him.

“Mr. Stark?”

“Yeah, what?”  He finally glances over at Peter.  The kid’s suit is spread out on the lab bench, but it currently looks more like a mess of exposed wires.  “What’re you doing?”

“I, um.  Can you help me?” Peter asks.  He puts on an expression that’s equally adorable and pitiful.  

Tony’s heart melts a little.  “Ok, yeah.  What are you trying to do with it?”

“The heater doesn’t work,” the kid explains.  “I think something shorted out…somewhere.”

“Yeah, I’ll say.”  Tony looks down at the suit.  “You practically took the whole thing apart!  I’d be surprised if there’s a single circuit left.”

“Well, I don’t know…”  Peter rubs at his forehead with the heel of his hand.  “I had to, you know, look for it.”

“Kid.”  Tony shakes his head.  “I don’t care if you take it apart to see how it’s made in the privacy of your bedroom.  But this.”  He gestures at the mess. “You’ve got lines crossed that shouldn’t be.  Your tools are all over the place.  This is a safety hazard, is what this is.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, I just–”

“I know I’m not the neatest guy, but that’s why I have bots.  It’s, like, the number one rule of working in a lab.  Didn’t they teach you that in school?”

“Yeah, they did,” Peter says quietly.  “I just…I forgot.”

“How’d you forget?”  Tony doesn’t realize he’s shouting until he hears his voice echo back.  “That’s like forgetting a stove is hot!”

“I’m really sorry.  I don’t feel good, and it’s cold in my aunt’s place, and I thought I could fix it, and I’m just really sorry.”  Peter looks down at a screwdriver in his hand.  He seems about a second from breaking down.  

“Oh.”  It’s definitely not what Tony was expecting.  But now that the kid mentions it, he’s pale.  His cheeks are pink.  “FRIDAY, you wanna do a temperature check on Pete, here?”

“Mr. Parker’s resting body temperature is 101.4 degrees,” the AI reports.  

“Ok, change of plans.”  Tony wrests the screwdriver from Peter’s lax grip and pats him on the shoulder.  “You run on upstairs and see if you can find Pepper to give you something of the pharmaceutical variety.  Or the chicken soup variety.  You pick.”  Tony starts rearranging the wires on the Spider-Man suit.  “And I’ll work on this.  Savvy?”

“Thanks, Mr. Stark.”  The kid still looks like he’s about to cry.  

“Don’t mention it.  Run along,” Tony says.  “Well, don’t run.  Walk.  Slowly.  Don’t tax yourself.”

“Ok.”  Peter cracks a smile before turning toward the exit.

“And feel better,” Tony calls after him.


	27. Tony can't lecture Peter when he's being sick

“Fall back!”  

Peter hears Tony’s order.  The many-legged robotic thing they’re facing is shooting projectiles now, and it’s only a matter of time before one of them gets hit.  They’re fatigued.  They need backup.  

Peter shoots a web over his shoulder and begins to swing backwards.  “Falling!” he calls to Tony.

But Tony’s not within earshot anymore.  He’s going the opposite direction, flying toward the threat.

“What the hell?” Peter shouts.  The robot raises one of its limbs.  It’s going to collide with Tony if he doesn’t alter his flight path.

Tony pulls up at the last second, but unluckily, the enemy anticipates his movement and slams into his helmet, sending him spinning toward the ground.  

“Oh no,” Peter murmurs, his heart thudding in his chest.  He quickly webs up to the nearest street light.  He shoots wildly at Tony’s falling form, catching the shoulder of his armor.  The added weight unbalances Peter, and he starts to fall as well.  He lands sloppily on top of Tony as the robot skitters forward and makes another attempt to step on them.

Peter latches onto Tony’s arm and starts rolling.  They bounce down the grassy hill and come to a halt where the park ends and the pavement begins.  Peter’s back slams into a wall and knocks the wind out of him, but he’s still able to jump to his feet and yank Tony into an alley too narrow for the enemy.

“Mr. Stark!  Are you ok?”  Peter doesn’t mean to shout, but his heartbeat is still so loud he can barely hear himself.

“Kid…”  Tony retracts his mask.  “What did I say?”

“Um…”  Peter honestly doesn’t remember.

“When I say fall back, I mean it.”  Tony braces himself against the wall.  “You can’t–”  He stops abruptly, his face white and his throat working.  Tony jerks forward and vomits al over his boots.  “You can’t…just…do whatever you want…”

“Mr. Stark?”  Peter isn’t sure if he should pat him on the back, or if that will make things worse.

“You have to… _listen_ …”  Tony heaves again.

“Ok, Mr. Stark, I’m listening, I swear,” Peter says, trying to keep the panic out of his tone.  “Can I call someone?  Like, Black Widow, or Captain America or someone?  Or Happy, can I call Happy?  To pick you up?”

Tony drags his metal gloved hand over his lips.  “Yeah,” he finally says.  “Call Happy.  To get both of us.  You don’t get to fight without me.”


	28. Robot space bugs and Peter Parker don't mix well

ony doesn’t see exactly what’s happening, and even if he did, his brain wouldn’t have had time to compute.  One second, the kid’s standing next to him, watching the giant space robot spew some kind of whitish fog, and the next he’s flat on his back on the sidewalk.

“Kid?  Pete?”  Tony drops to his knees, waving the cloud out of the air with his metal-gloved hand.  “You ok?”

“Yeah, I’m–”  Peter shoves his mask up to free his nose and mouth, but that only seems to make things worse.  He coughs and sputters, foam growing at the corners of his lips.

“Ok, we’re getting out of here.”  Tony scoops the kid into his arms and takes off, rocketing up vertically until they’re clear of the vapor in the air.  Tony looks down at Peter, but the fresh air doesn’t seem to be helping.  He moans something incoherent, then vomits down the front of his suit.  

“Alright,” Tony mumbles.  “Just get it out of your system.”  He clutches the kid against his chest plate and scans the landscape below, searching out the irregular outline of the hospital.  “I’m gonna get you some help.”


	29. Peter has the stomach flu, but he's still in denial

The kid looks pale when he arrives at the facility after school.  Tony asks him if he’s ok before they take the elevator down to the lab.  Peter says he’s fine.  Tony still sees him swallow hard as the metal box starts to move.

After an hour of work, Tony asks if he wants a coke.  He even offers him a Red Bull.  Peter says no, thanks.  He’s fine.

And Tony knows he’s not.  Half of him wants to call the kid out, but another more devilish part of his brain wants to see how long Peter will last.  If the grey-green cast to his cheeks is anything to go by, it’s not long.

Still, Tony can’t help hurrying things along.  “Pepper’s going to order pizza.  You want, what, a large pepperoni all to yourself?”

Peter swallows.  Looks at the floor.  “No, thanks.  I’m not hungry.”

“Ok.”  Tony shrugs and lets it drop.  

Thirty seconds pass, and Peter’s on his feet, dashing for the bathroom with his hand over his mouth.

At first Tony laughs at the pure cartoonishness of it, but then he hears the kid gagging and his heart breaks for him a little.

“Hey, Pete?”  Tony taps on the door.

“I’m ok.  I’ll be right out.”  But the kid retches again.

“No, you’re not.”  Tony opens the bathroom door a crack.  “Want me to call May to come get you, or tell her you’re spending the night here?”

“You’d…let me stay?”

“Well, I’m not making you ride all the way back to the city while you’re doing that.”  Tony gestures toward the toilet.

“Thanks,” Peter says.  “I’m really fine.  I’ll be ok, just give me a few minutes.”

“Sure, kid.”  Tony shakes his head.  He pulls out his phone and uses it to give FRIDAY text commands.   _Clean sheets on Peter’s bed.  Ginger ale in his mini fridge.  Maybe an extra trash can.  Not that he’s sick or anything._

FRIDAY immediately responds with a message.   _Of course he’s not, sir._


	30. Peter has a cough and a fever and May knows everything

“See ya, May,” Peter says, trying to inject some pep into his voice.  He holds his sleeve over his mouth as he clears his throat, then calls out again.  “Bye.”

He’s about to open the door and start down the stairs when a hand snags the strap of his backpack and another rakes his hair off his forehead.

“Hey!” Peter protests, whipping around to face his aunt.  “Who said you could do sneak attacks?”

“Legal guardians don’t need permission.”  May grins at him.  “We make the rules.”

“May…” Peter whines.  “Lemme go.  I’m gonna be late.”

“I think you’re boiling your brain in there,” May says, trailing her hand down his cheek.  “The only place I’m letting you go is back to bed.”

“Come on, May.  I have a test.  Two tests, actually, and then the Stark intern–”

“Pete,”  May cuts him off.  “Your teachers will understand.  Mr. Stark will understand.  If you keep bouncing off the walls, you’re gonna end up with something a lot worse than a cough and a fever.”

“I don’t have a cough,” Peter says, but his throat immediately begins to itch and he has to hack into his elbow.

“I could hear you going at it all night!  I had no idea our walls were so thin,” May says.  “I’ll take this.”  May pulls Peter’s bookbag off his back.  “You head back to bed.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes!  How many times do I have to say it?”  Irritation crosses May’s face, then her expression softens.  “How about hot cocoa?  I’ll bring it to you.  In bed.”

“Fine,” Peter says.  But he can’t help but smile.


	31. A feverish and delirious Peter calls Tony "Dad" by mistake

Tony hates going to bed alone.  Pepper’s at some kind of event in San Diego, and flying cross country twice in one day is apparently too much to ask.  He would bypass this issue and spend the night working in the lab, but the kid’s sleeping over at the facility, and he has to set a good example.  Tony wraps his arms around Pepper’s pillow and puts on Forrest Gump.  He falls asleep before the story progresses out of the 1950s.

Somebody’s shaking his arm.  “Um.  Hey.  Sorry…”

“What the hell?  Get it yourself,” Tony grumbles, brushing the hands away.  He’s not helping Pepper rearrange the top shelf of the closet, not at 2 in the morning, not when he’s sleeping.  

“I just…”  The words die in a gulping sob.  That gets Tony’s attention.  Pepper doesn’t cry like that.  “I threw up, and I’m really, really, sorry.”

Tony’s eyes snap open.  Peter stands beside the bed, one hand still on Tony’s arm, the other caged over his mouth.  Surprise mixes with concern and disgust, and he’s not sure what to say first.  

“FRIDAY, what happened to verbal warnings?  You know, before people come barging into my private quarters?”  Maybe it’s a good thing Pepper’s out of town after all.

“My verbal warning system is disabled, sir,” the AI replies.

“Fuck.”  Tony shakes his head.  “Why?”

“You disabled it after the unplanned fire alarm test last month.”

“Well, reinstate the damn thing.”  Tony rubs his eyes.  Now what to do about the kid.

“Um?”  Peter makes the questioning sound a second before he starts to gag, his shoulders jolting forward as he presses his hand flat against his lips.

“Ok, come’ere.”  Tony jumps out of bed and drags Peter into the bathroom, pushing him down over the toilet before he crosses to turn on the light.  There’s already vomit all down the front of the kid’s pajamas.  Tony doesn’t want to think of the state of the bed.

He pats Peter on the back.  Heat comes off the kid in waves.  Tony wonders how he’s going to get a fever reducer into him when it seems like there’s no chance of anything oral staying down.  Peter’s barely bringing up bile, but his body still wracks with heaves.

Tony wets a washcloth and drapes it over the back of Peter’s neck.  He feels like he’s seen somebody do that before.  Maybe on TV.  

“Thanks,” the kid breathes, wiping his mouth on the back of his shaking hand.  “Thanks, Dad.  I mean…”  He shakes his head and swallows convulsively.  “I mean, Ben…”  Another round of dry retching takes hold.  “Ugh.  Sorry.”

“It’s ok, kid.”  Tony gives him a sad smile.  “It’s ok.”


	32. Peter panics about his exams

“Hey, Mr. Stark, hi, what’re we working on today?”  

“Huh?”  Tony looks up, sure the kid’s going to be blue in the face, because he didn’t hear him take a single breath as he uttered the jumbled sentence.

Peter’s cheeks aren’t blue, though.  They’re pale.  Now tinged with the slightest hint of pink as he looks down at his shoes.  “Oh.  Um.  What’re we working on today?”  He catches Tony’s eye, then tips his chin back toward the floor.

Tony blinks.  This is not the Peter Parker he’s used to… _putting up with_  is too strong a term.   _Educating_?   _Mentoring_?  Because there’s a care factor, whether Tony likes it or not.

His brain automatically flicks through possibilities.  The real Peter Parker trapped in an underground lair while a life decoy model moves through life in his place.  Or maybe he’s been drugged.  Or maybe he’s been doing drugs.  

Tony shakes his head.  The kid he knows wouldn’t do that.  And more to point, he’s a kid.  And young humans are volatile, if Tony’s own adolescence is anything to go by.

“Um.  Here.”  Tony grabs the second swivel chair and pushes it up beside his.  “Have a seat.”

“What’re we–?” Peter starts again, but this time his lack of breath catches up with him, and his voice dies in a sharp inhale. 

“Talking,” Tony says.  “We haven’t done a lot of that lately.  Might be a good change of pace.”

“Oh.  Hm.”  Peter goes quiet, but his chest’s still heaving under his sweatshirt.  He’s quivering, too.  Life decoy models don’t do that.

Tony looks for something to coax whatever it is out of the kid.  His gaze falls on the box of office supplies on the corner of the lab bench.  

“You know,” Tony starts, “Pepper still hates paying for shipping on Amazon.  I tell her we can afford it, but she orders all this shit we don’t need just to get her total up to whatever the free shipping number is.”  He reaches for the box and rummages in it.  “Look.  Why do I need a pencil sharpener?  We don’t use wooden pencils anymore.  We barely even use mechanical ones.”  Tony laughs.

Peter’s lip twitches, but he still doesn’t say anything.

“Seriously, do you need a pencil sharpener?”  Tony pulls three or four of them from the box.  “I have a ton.  In all different colors, too.  Do you still write on paper at school?”

“No,” Peter mutters.  “I mean, yes, but, but…”  He meets Tony’s eye.  His chin begins to wobble.  

“What’s up?”

Peter swallows.  “Ithinkifailedmyphysicsfinal.”  

The words are so jumbled Tony can barely hear him.  “Sorry?”

“I’m gonna…”  Peter shakes his head.  “I’m gonna flunk out of school.  I fucked up, I know I did.  And now school’s out and we’re not gonna get report cards for another month, and May’s gonna be so mad, and I’m gonna have to repeat a grade, and you’re gonna fire me…”  The kid seems to realize what he’s said, and the tears begin to fall.

“Whoa, hold up.”  Tony turns up the speed of his thoughts so he can keep up.  He isn’t sure he comprehends it all, but he breathes a small sigh of relief anyway.  Life decoy models don’t care about grades.  And kids who do drugs don’t either.

“So you think maybe you did kinda crappy on one test?” Tony asks.  

Peter takes a huge, shuddering breath and nods.  “I, but, it’s, like, the most important one–”

“Ah, see.”  Tony holds up one finger.  “One.  One test.”

“But it’s a final, it’s worth like a ton of the grade…”  A tear tracks down his cheek.  Peter wipes it with the back of his hand, then intwines his shaking fingers and jams them between his knees.

“Alright.  You’re worried.  That’s ok,” Tony says.  “But you’re gonna be fine.”  He claps Peter on the shoulder.

The kid crumples a little under the touch.  “No I’m not…”

“Hm.”  Tony gives his arm a lighter pat.  “How many tests have you had today?”

  
“Five,” Peter mumbles.

“And how much coffee had you had today?”

The kid looks at Tony blankly.  “I…um…”  He looks sheepish.

“That’ll do it.”  Tony smiles.  “Stress happens.  It’s ok.”  He stands up.  “Let’s take the day off.  We’ll watch a movie or something.  And find you some chamomile.”

Peter reluctantly returns the grin.  He wipes his eyes and follows Tony up the stairs.


	33. Tony reluctantly heads off to take care of a sick Peter

Tony looks up in exasperation when his phone rings.  “Hey,” he says to the empty air beside him.  “I thought we weren’t doing the taking calls thing.”

“You requested your ringer to be kept silent except in the case of an emergency,” FRIDAY replies.

“There’s no emergency,” Tony says, a note of accusation in his voice.  He sets down a screwdriver and looks up at the muted newscast playing on the holographic screen hovering above his lab bench.  It’s something about sports.  Or maybe politics.  It’s getting hard to tell the difference these days.  But there’s nothing showing an alien attack or HYDRA insurgence.  

“Your cell plan defines an emergency as two calls received from the same number in the span of five minutes,” the AI informs him.

“What, we got Verizon making the rules now?”  Tony lets out a irritated chuckle.  “No.  I make the rules.”

“Would you like to take the call, sir?”

“Who is it?”  Tony resumes loosening the bolts on his helmet.

“It’s Mr. Parker calling,” FRIDAY says.  “He tried to reach you at 12:56 AM, then again at 1:32 AM and now at 1:34–”

“Ok, I don’t need a lesson in telling time.”  Tony throws the screwdriver down again.  This is exactly why he works at night, and alone.  So he won’t get interrupted.  “Did he try Happy?  He should call Happy if he needs a permission slip for an R-rated movie or something…”

“He has, sir.”  FRIDAY quiets for a moment.  Then she prompts Tony again.  “Would you like to take the call?”

“Geez, fine.”  Tony uses his feet to propel his swivel chair back from the bench.  “I’ll go press the ‘accept call’ button myself, too.”  He snatches his phone up and angrily swipes at the screen, then holds the device to his ear.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter gasps as soon as the line clicks to life.

“What, kid, isn’t it past your bedtime?” Tony leans back and stares at the ceiling, wondering how long this is going to take.

“Um, well,” Peter waffles.  “I was just, uh, wondering…”  His voice goes high before it trails off into a gulp.

“Uh-huh.”  Tony’s already beginning to tune him out.

“How long, or, um, how many times–” another gulp “–can a person throw up before it’s, like, you know.  Serious?”

“Um…”  Tony thinks, then the words mesh with the kid’s tone and the rest of the sounds coming from his end of the call.  “Wait, what?”

“How many times–” Peter starts, but the phone whistles and clatters, and Tony hears the horrendous sound of empty retching.

“Oof, kid…”  Tony shakes his head in sympathy.  

“Ohmygodimsosorry,” the kid rasps.  “I didn’t mean to drop the phone, I just–”

“Ok, ok,” Tony quickly soothes him.  “Pete?  Listen.  Stop talking.”

“Ok,” Peter says.  Then, “Sorry.”

“That’s fine.”  Tony cards his hand through his hair, thinking through his plan of attack.  He’s usually good at that.  His plans just don’t usually involve sick kids.  “Where’s May?  She not home?”

“She’s in…  Seattle?  I think?”  Peter coughs.  Tony holds his breath in case the kid starts gagging again.  “For training,” Peter continues.  “She got a promotion.”

“That’s great,” Tony says absently.  “How long have you been sick?”

“Um…”  Peter hesitates.  “Since I got home from school?  I just, like, my stomach, and, like…”  His voice distorts as he swallows noisily.  “I can’t stop.  Puking.”  He breaks into another heave.

“Alright, I got the idea.”  Tony does the calculation.  The kid’s been throwing his guts up for eight hours, minimum.  Probably closer to ten.  Dehydration has to be a problem, let alone whatever bug the kid has.  Tony’s not even going to ask if he still has his appendix.  

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter breathes.  “I just…don’t know what to do.”

“No, it’s ok.”  Tony holds the phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he hastily tightens up the bolts on his helmet.  He carries it across the lab and steps into the shell of his suit.  “I’m on my way, alright?  Try to stay on the phone until I get there.”

“Ok,” the kid agrees.  “I just…thanks.”

“Sure, kid.”  Tony takes one moment to shake his head, then switches the phone to speaker and rockets upward through the skylight.


	34. Peter faints at school and May freaks out

Peter’s sure nobody’s going to notice.  Even with his head throbbing and his stomach churning, he can make it through the day.  

He pushes through the morning with little issue.  The geometry test feels a little harder than it probably should, but Peter’s not worried.  He sits silently through history and chem, then gets a ginger ale for lunch.

Ned talks a lot between bites of pizza, so Peter doesn’t have to say much keep up the conversation.  But he’s still grateful when the bell rings to send them to English.

Peter’s stomach sloshes uncomfortably as he stands up.  He wraps one arm protectively around it as he slings his backpack over his shoulder.  The sick feeling only gets stronger, though.  “You know, I’m gonna stop at the bathroom,” he tells Ned.  

“Yeah, see you in class.”  

Peter walks slowly, but soon the urge to gag rises in his throat.  He jogs the last few steps and throws himself into a stall.  He braces his hands on his knees as he burps the ginger ale into the toilet.  It’s frothy and sour, but comes up in a few heaves.  The wave of sickness leaves him panting and a little dizzy, but no worse for wear.  There’s probably enough time for him to get to class before the bell rings.  

“Dude,” Ned whispers as Peter sides into his seat.  “Are you ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Peter lies, swallowing the residual taste of bile.  He hadn’t glanced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, but it would make sense if he’s pale.

Ned looks like he’s going to say something else, but the teacher calls the class to order.  She writes a sentence on the white board and holds a red marker out to Peter.  He dutifully takes it and stands up to make the grammar corrections. 

As he approaches the board, though, the writing on it begins to blur.  His vision crosses over itself, then starts to black out around the edges.  Peter stops and blinks.  Then the room tips and he feels himself start to fall.

***

“Pete?  Peter?  You need to wake up, ok sweetie?  Your aunt’s here.”  

“Hm?”  Peter opens his eyes.  Everything’s still blurry.  But he recognizes the school nurse standing near his shoulder.   Where is he?  Why is he lying down?

Peter starts to sit up, but the nurse stops him with a hand on his chest.  “Easy,” she warns.  “Not too fast.”

Peter slows his movement.  By the time he’s upright, the nurse’s office comes into focus.  Aunt May rushes around the corner and stops short a few feet from the cot.

“Oh my god,” she gasps.  “Peter?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Peter says weakly.  He means in general; he still feels achy and sick.

“You passed out in class?” May asks incredulously.  “You need to say something when you don’t feel well.  Imagine the call I got.  I had no idea if you were ok!”  She looks on the verge of tears.

“Ok, sure,” Peter agrees.  “I’m sorry, May, I thought I’d be alright for the rest of the day.”

“You can’t scare me like that.”  May sits on the edge of the cot and pulls Peter into a hug.  She lingers her hand on his cheek and shakes her head.  “You’re burning up.  I like that you want to be at school, but this is too much.” 

She picks up Peter’s backpack.  “Let’s get you home, ok?  Do you feel up to moving?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, swinging his legs over the side of the cot.  

“You sure?”  May hovers her hands over his shoulder.

“Yeah, May.  I’m ok.”


	35. Peter needs boyfriend advice from Tony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another spinoff of the spiderverse 2.0 series in which Peter is in a budding relationship with Harry.

“Hey.”  Tony pushes his chair back from the lab bench.  He can’t decide if it’s better to measure his words or just blurt them out.  But he has to say something, because normally bubbly high school sophomores don’t turn surly for no reason.  

“I know I don’t have rules in here, like no phones in the lab or anything,” he says.  “But you’ve been on that thing a lot.”  

Peter quickly looks up and holds the iPhone against his chest.  “Oh,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze.  “Sorry.  I’ll put it away, I just have to check…really quick.”  He glances at the screen again, then slides the device into the front pocket of his sweatshirt.  Tony can see the outline of his hand wrapped around it, as if the kid doesn’t plan on keeping it there long.

“Checking what?” Tony asks.  He is curious, but he realizes it probably sounds over-eager.  He’s supposed to be the safe adult, the one who’s not all up in Peter’s business.  “I mean, you don’t have to say.  But whatever it is, it’s really got your attention.”

“Yeah.”  Peter sighs.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.  I’ll focus on the, um…”  The kid looks down at the wiring on the lab bench, clearly not interested.  

Tony decides he’s not too interested in the project either.  And the kid’s apology has the ring of something a student says to a teacher.  Tony doesn’t think he can stand for it.  He’s not a teacher.  He wants them to be more open with each other than that.

Tony decides to throw open the door.  He has decades of experience to his advantage, and he thinks he has a pretty good read on the kid.  “This whole, uh, attitude, it wouldn’t happen to be due to something like…a certain guy…doing a certain…something.”  It’s vague, but he knows Peter gets what he means.  Gay, straight, 90s, now, the terminology may change, but the ups and downs of young adult love are the same.  

“Shit,” Peter sighs.  “I mean, yeah.  I mean, sorry…”

“Hey, no,” Tony says quickly.  “No rules in the lab, remember?  Cussing is allowed.  What’s up?”

Peter swallows.  He takes a breath and spits out the story at hyperspeed.  “We went and got pizza on Friday and we kind of talked about going to this party, but then we didn’t go, and he said he’d text me, but then he didn’t, and now it’s Sunday and I’m gonna see him at school tomorrow and if he doesn’t say something before then it’s gonna be all weird.”  He blushes.  

It’s minor.  Peter has to know it, has to know Tony knows it.  But with a first relationship and new ways to keep in touch, Tony sees how it’s a problem and how it can monopolize the brain of a smart kid who’s probably already analyzed every permutation of possible outcomes.

“Ok, let’s solve this,” Tony says.  No touchy-feely shit from him.  He’s a mechanic, and this is definitely an issue he’s worked out before, albeit under different circumstances.  “Have you texted him?”

Peter nods.

“How many times?”

“Once…”  He looks at Tony.  “I thought twice would be weird, like, I don’t want to ask where he is or anything.”

“It’s ok.  Once is good.  You still have some room to work with before it gets weird.”  He smiles.

“I’m allowed to text him again?”  Peter already has his phone out.

“You can do whatever you want,” Tony says.  “But hold up a second.  I know it’s hard to turn off all the what-ifs, but sometimes stuff just happens.  Phones get lost, parents get weird…”  Tony shrugs.  Sometimes relationships spontaneously fizzle out, too.  Or new crushes take precedence.  Or bouts of depression erase all possible meaning in life.  But he chooses not to highlight those possibilities.

“I know.  It’s just…not like him.  Harry doesn’t disappear like that,” Peter says.

“So, here’s what I suggest.”  Tony leans his elbows on the lab bench.  “Just a suggestion, take it or leave it.  But I think you should text him and ask him if he’s ok.  Like a ‘just checking in’ kind of thing.  People…”  Tony has to try hard not to say  _chicks_.  “People like it when you care about them, not just about doing things with them.”

“Hm.  Ok, yeah.”  Peter poises his thumbs over the screen of his phone, probably already composing a message in his head.  Then he looks at Tony again.

“Go upstairs.  You don’t wanna do this with me around.”  Tony grins.  “But let me know how it plays out.  If you want.”

The kid’s already out of his chair and jogging to the elevator.  But he still turns and says, “ok,” over his shoulder.


	36. Peter breaks his wrist and needs Tony to rescue him from the pain

All he can think about is the pain.  The edges of Peter’s vision begin to blur out, and even his lungs seem to be working too hard.  It doesn’t make sense; his head and chest should be fine.  It’s just his wrist that’s injured.  But no matter how far on the periphery he’s managed to hurt himself, the agony is central to his being.

Sweat prickles over Peter’s body, making his suit feel like it’s sticking to him.  Nausea hits him hard, and he awkwardly shoves his mask up with his left hand to breathe through the urge to gag.  

This is ridiculous.  This is beyond his understanding.  The idea that he needs help lands an instant before Peter remembers that he has tools for this.  It’s progress.  Assuming he can keep breathing and refrain from barfing long enough to place a phone call.

“Karen, call Mr. Stark,” Peter chokes.  He cradles his right wrist against his chest and leans against the alley wall.  

“Calling,” the AI confirms.  The audio switches to the phone line ringing.  Peter hopes Tony will be able to hear him, what with his mask askew on top of his head.  He doesn’t feel confident enough to drag it down over his face again.

“Yeah?” Tony answers after the third ring.

“Hey, hi, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, trying and failing to find a way to communicate the seriousness of the situation without sounding frantic.  The radiating throb in his hand is stealing his ability to control his voice too.  “I, um, you know how they tell you to like, not try to break your fall with your hands?  You know, when you’re doing, like, skateboard tricks and stuff?”  

Why is he saying that?  Peter’s brain is turning to mush.  The thought of liquefying and dripping out of his skull brings the taste of bile to his throat.  He swallows hard.

“What did you do?”  Tony sounds annoyed, but there’s concern in his tone too.  

“I was just patrolling, and then, like…” Peter isn’t sure he remembers hitting the ground.  There was the sensation of falling, instinctual panic, then pain.  A few seconds are missing.  He wonders if that’s something he needs to worry about.  

His thoughts are interrupted with vomit.  His stomach lurches and forces his breakfast back up through his gritted teeth without so much as a spike in the nausea as warning. Peter sputters and braces his elbows on his knees as he heaves again.

“Did you throw up?”

The conversation seems separate from the action, and Peter’s comprehension is anchored a few seconds back.  “No, I–I fell–”

“But just now, you threw up?”  Tony’s getting loud.  Angry maybe?  Peter doesn’t want to be in trouble.  He already hurts.

“I, yeah, I don’t know.”  Tears run down Peter’s cheeks where they join the dribbles of snot and sick.  “It just hurts really bad.  Like, really bad.”

“Yeah, ok.”  There’s a clattering on the other end of the line, the sound of Tony moving around.  “Stay down, alright?  I’m gonna find you, and take you to the hospital.  Keep talking to me.  Tell me what happened.”

Peter hears all the words, but only latches onto one.  “I don’t wanna go to the hospital,” he moans.  “Can you just…?  Can you help me?”

“Not that kind of doctor, kid,” Tony says.  “I’m not any kind of doctor.  Sometimes you gotta let the professionals do their jobs.”

“But I was just trying to do my job.”  Peter’s jaw trembles.  He isn’t sure if he’s about to start sobbing or dry heaving.  “Please, Mr. Stark.”

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Tony assures him.  “So let me get this straight, you were patrolling, and you fell and you did the thing where you put your hands out in front of you, and learned the importance of safety advice.  Right?”

“Hm.”  It’s the only sound Peter can make without opening his mouth.

“So it’s your hand?  Or your arm or something?”  

“Hm.”

“And where do skateboards play into it?” Tony asks.

“I don’t…”  Peter shakes his head a fraction of an inch to each side, which is enough to upset his equilibrium again.  “I’m sorry Mr. Stark, I’m gonna puke,” he manages to gasp before he has to duck his head.

“Ok, ok, breathe, kid,” Tony says.  “I’m almost to you.  Breathe.”  He pauses for a second as Peter coughs.  Then, “I know you were just spouting off about skateboards.  But keep talking to me.  I’m gonna help you.”

Peter spits and takes a shuddering breath.  “Ok.”


	37. Peter's caught off guard with sudden sickness in the lab

“Hey.”  

Peter abruptly snaps out of his daze when one of Tony’s hands comes down on is shoulder.  The other waves back and forth in front of Peter’s eyes.  “Anyone home?  What’s up with you?”

“What?” Peter says quickly.  “Oh.”  He’s slumped over the lab bench on his elbows.  When did that happen?  

“This is apparently not holding your attention.”  Tony scoops up Peter’s suit and a handful of tools and deposits them on the counter behind him.  “What’s going on?  Need a break?  A snack?”

“No, no, I’m good,” Peter says, pushing himself up.  His palms are clammy.  He wipes them on his jeans.  “I–we–can keep going.”

“Well, I need a break.”  Tony opens the fridge in the corner of the lab and pulls out two cans of coke.  “What were you dreaming about there.  Or should I ask who?”  Tony laughs.

Peter moves his jaw around.  His face feels weird, almost numb.  “Nothing,” he answers.  “Nobody.  I honestly don’t remember.”  It’s the truth.  He doesn’t.  

“Ok…”  Tony doesn’t seem to buy it.  “Here.  Catch.”  He tosses one of the cans in Peter’s direction.  

Peter watches it tumble through the air, following the arc.  He lifts his hands to snatch it, but the soda’s slick with condensation and it slips through his fingers.  

It hits the tile floor a few feet behind him, and it explodes on impact.  

“Wow.  I wasn’t expecting that,” Tony says, sounding genuinely surprised.  

“Sorry,” Peter says.  He’s about to offer to clean it up, but his body has other ideas.  He belches harshly, as if he’s already guzzled a half-dozen cokes.  For a split second, Peter’s embarrassed, but the feeling turns quickly to panic.  

He gags just as vertigo hits him full in the face, disorienting him even though he’s sitting still.  Stars break out across his visual field.  It’s the warm wetness spreading across his knees that confirms what’s happened.  Peter’s cheeks flush.  He starts to apologize for making another mess, but he barely gets a word out when he throws up again.  

“Ok.  Um.  Alright.”  Tony pats him awkwardly on the back and nudges the trash can toward Peter with his foot.  “I wasn’t really expecting that either.”

“Ugh.”  Peter spits and cages his hand over his mouth, unsure of whether he’s finished or if this is just a pause between rounds.  “Neither was I.”

“That makes us both shitty scientists,” Tony says.  “Observation.  It’s important.”  There’s a beat of silence.  Then he laughs.

Peter laughs too, until it turns to a convulsive hack that sends him retching again.


	38. Peter's injured on patrol, and Steve and Bucky are the only ones available to pick him up

“Ugh,” Peter groans and rolls onto his back, clutching his knee to his chest.  He doesn’t know if it’s bone or skin that’s broken, but something definitely snapped when he bashed it against the sidewalk.  He really needs to work on sticking his landings.  

Peter squeezes his eyes shut and reminds himself to breathe.  When he’s sure he’s not going to pass out, he starts formulating a plan.  He needs to get out of here, but there’s no way he’ll be able to under his own power.  

“Hey, Karen?” Peter asks.  “Can you, uh, call Mr. Stark?”

“He is currently in Spain.  Would you like me to place the call long-distance?” the AI responds.

“Oh.  No, let’s not do that.”  Peter bites his lip.  His jaw feels tight all of a sudden, and he’s not sure if he’s going to cry or throw up.  “Is, um, anyone else home?”

“Captain Rogers and Sergeant Banes are at the compound.  Alternatively, I could notify local emergency services–”

“No, no, call Cap.  I’m not riding in an ambulance,” Peter says quickly.  “I don’t wanna go to the hospital.  May’s gonna kill me if she finds out…”

“I’m placing the call…”  Karen’s voice fades out and the ringing phone line replaces it.  

“Steve Rogers speaking.”

“Oh my god.  Cap.  I mean, Mr. Rogers.”  Peter shakes his head, trying to remove the image of Steve as the host of a children’s television show.  His stomach sloshes even though that’s not the part of him that’s moving, and he has to stop and breathe again.  

“What’s wrong?”  Maybe it’s a good thing Steve comes from an era before Mr. Rogers’s Neighborhood.  “What happened?”

“I just, I fell, and my knee, and I…I need backup,” Peter says in a rush.  

“Ok, I have your location,” Steve says.  “Stay calm, we’re on our way.  I’ll get you out of there, and Buck will finish up the mission.”

“I…”  If Steve has his location, he has to see that Peter’s on his back in an alley in Manhattan, not in some dark HYDRA lair.  And he’d been pursuing less of a mission than a guy fleeing an expired parking meter.  “Yeah, ok,” Peter says.  “I’ll wait for you.” 


	39. Peter's stealth-mode needs work

“May I assist you in finding what you’re looking for?” FRIDAY’s automated voice asks.  

Peter jumps and snatches his hand back from the bathroom light switch as if he’s been burned.  “Geez,” he hisses, swallowing frantically to put his stomach back where it belongs.  “Why do you have to be so loud?”

“I’ll adjust my volume accordingly,” the AI acquiesces in a softer tone.  “Do you require assistance?”

“No,” Peter says, carefully prying open the medicine cabinet.  He stops and holds his breath as the hinges squeak. “Be quiet.  I don’t want anyone to hear me.”

“Understood.”  

Peter sighs.  A sick belch rises in his throat.  He’s afraid it’ll be wetter than he anticipates, so he holds one hand over his mouth and paws through the bottles and boxes with the other.  There are a lot of painkillers, most of the extra-strength variety.  But superheroes have to get stomach aches, too.  

Peter finally finds a bottle of antacids.  He attempts to pry the lid off one-handed, but he’s interrupted when the door bounces off the wall.  Peter starts again and has to concentrate in order to push down the wash of acid in his throat.  

“What’re you doing?”  Tony’s eyes are unfocused as if he’s a little inebriated, or at least sleep-deprived.  “It’s, like…late.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter says.  “I just, my stomach, so I, you know…” he waffles, looking down at the Tums as his cheeks flush in embarrassment.  

“You alright?” Tony asks.  He grabs a bottle of Excedrin over Peter’s head and throws back a couple of the pills.  

“Um.  Yeah.”  Peter crunches the chalky tablets between his teeth, praying they’ll at least take the edge of his nausea.  “Are you?”

“Of course I am,” Tony replies.  “Thor’s back.  So we cracked a new bottle.”

“Oh.”  The flavor of artificial berries isn’t much of an improvement from reflux.  “Well, have fun, I guess.” Peter says.

“You wanna join?” Tony asks.  Then he shakes his head.  “What am I saying?  You’re not old enough.  You’re not feeling good.”

“I’m ok, Mr. Stark.”  Peter can’t help but crack a smile.  “Promise.”


	40. Tony finds out why the kid has pneumonia

When the kid calls and asks if there are any projects to work on, Tony doesn’t read the subtext.  If he’s honest, he doesn’t know he should be looking for it.  The fact that he’s wearing a welding mask mucks up the quality of the call, and Peter’s section of Queens isn’t known for having great cell reception. **  
**

Tony puts his blowtorch down long enough to say sure, he’ll scrounge something up.  The kid’s probably old enough for a lesson in metalworking.  And if not, there’s always the foosball table.  Tony bought it to keep Thor quiet during training weekends, but it’s made the game room a popular hangout.  He even saw Clint and Nat in there, battling it out.

As soon as Peter arrives, though, all thoughts of hardware engineering and table games leave his head.  Unless there’s some kind of new fashion trend making the rounds, he’s pretty sure the kid’s lips aren’t supposed to be blue.

“Um.”  Tony holds his hand out, warning Peter to stay put on the steps down into the lab.  “Don’t get any closer.”

“Why?  Is everything ok?” the kid asks.  Then he starts hacking.  It’s a deep, chesty cough, the kind that makes Tony wince in sympathy and cross his index fingers into an X in front of his face.

“FRIDAY.  Scan him,” Tony orders.  

“Oh, hey, I’m fine,” Peter says quickly.  “I had a sore throat, like, last week, but I don’t have germs or anything–”  He cuts himself off with another fit.

“We’re gonna let the people with advanced degrees make that determination.  And the robots.  FRIDAY?” Tony prompts.

“There’s a significant amount of fluid in Mr. Parker’s lungs.  And his core body temperature is in excess of 101 degrees,” The AI reports.

“Significant as in hospital significant?” Tony asks, trying to keep the disgust off his face.  He settles for looking concerned.

“He does not appear to be in respiratory distress.”

“Ok.”  Tony shrugs.  “Staying home from school sick, not doctor’s office sick.  I got it.”  He yanks a surgical mask from a box on the edge of the lab bench, then jogs up the steps and grabs Peter’s arm.  

“Come on.”  He hands the kid the mask and pulls him toward the living room.  “Sit.”  Tony points at the couch, then gathers as many blankets and TV remotes as he can find.  

He tosses the blankets over Peter’s legs and tucks them in, ignoring the muffled protests the kid launches through the mask.

“Now,” Tony says, taking a seat on the edge of the coffee table, “Is there a reason you asked to come over for a playdate when you’re clearly fighting pneumonia?”

“I don’t have pneumonia!” Peter insists.  He brings his fist to his mouth and hacks, even though the mask covers his nose and lips.

“Mmmm, I’m not a doctor, but I’m gonna go with yes, you do,” Tony says.  “Don’t dodge the question.  Why’d you swing yourself all the way up here to lie to me when you could’ve been safe and warm and watching The Lego Movie at home with May?”

“Just…because…” the kid mumbles.

“God, you have to take that thing off,” Tony says, checking his frustration.  “I can’t hear you when I can’t see your lips move.  I must be getting old or something.”

“But, I thought, germs–”

“I don’t care.”  Tony reaches and unhooks the mask from Peter’s ear.  “Just spill.  Words.  Not bodily fluids.”

“Ok.”  The kid takes a rattling breath.  “May’s not home.  She’s pulling extra hours because…”  He looks down at his lap.  “Because they cut the power in our apartment.”  He looks embarrassed.  Like his cheeks would be tinged pink if they weren’t deathly pale.

“And you didn’t think that was something I needed to know?” Tony asks.

“No, I just, I thought we could handle it.  My cold wasn’t that bad.  May doesn’t like asking for things…”  Peter shrugs.  His shoulders don’t stop shaking after they drop.

“Hey.”  Tony lifts the kid’s chin with gentle fingertips.  “I don’t care.  I’m not judging.”  He raises his eyebrows at Peter.  “I’ll get the power back on, because I want you to be healthy and safe.  Not because I’m showing off, or whatever.”

“Mr. Stark, you don’t have to–”

“Stop talking.  Save your breath.”  Tony presses the backs of his knuckles to Peter’s cheek.  “FRIDAY, are you sure he’s only 101?  He’s really warm.”

“101.7, sir.”

“Ok.  Text Banner.  Ask him to come by,” Tony says.  He moves to sit on the couch beside Peter, then reaches for one of the many remotes.  “Tell him we’re in the living room, watching The Lego Movie.”  He looks at the kid.  “I haven’t seen it.  Is it good?”

“Yeah, It’s good,” Peter says with a slight cough.  “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Tony tells him.  “Don’t cough on me, but it’s fine.”


	41. Peter's sick in front of Tony and May

“Mr. Stark, really, you don’t have to,” Peter insists.  Though the more he says it, the clearer it becomes that Tony’s not listening.  “It’s fine. You don’t have to walk me up to the door.” He decides not to add that his stomach’s on the fritz.  But if he’s honest, that’s the main reason he wants to shake off his mentor before they make it up to his apartment.  

“No, I gotta talk to May, tell her what a good job you’re doing,” Tony says, making a dismissive motion at Peter.  He holds the building’s front door open. “Go. After you.”

“Mr. Stark, come on, it’s embarrassing.  It’s fine.”

“I know.  That’s my job,” Tony says.  He pushes the button to call the elevator.  

“We can take the stairs,” Peter suggests, a squeak in his voice.  He isn’t keen to experience the the drop in his gut when the rickety machine starts to rise.

Tony squints at the dented metal doors set in the wall.  “Is this original to the building? Do you think your landlord would let me install a new one?”

“I don’t know,” Peter sighs.  A sour taste is growing at the back of his throat.  “I’m just gonna take the stairs–”

But at that moment, the elevator doors open, and May steps out, holding a trash bag.  “Oh.” She says, blinking at Tony. Then she addresses Peter. “I assumed that’s where you went, you know, when you rushed out halfway through breakfast without telling me where you were going.”

“Completely my fault,” Tony says.  “I had a, uh, project. He gets excited.  Great kid you’ve got here.” He gives Peter a rough pat on the shoulder.  Peter has to fight the urge to push him away.

“Ok, yeah,” May says skeptically.  “But I’d really rather you tell me where you’re going when you leave.”

“He will,” Tony promises.  “I’ll make it up to you. Let me buy you lunch.  There’s a great Thai place across the street. You ever been there?”

The thought of food brings on a gag.  Peter quickly steps away from Tony and holds his fist up to his mouth.  “Maybe some other time. I really have to–” He’s on the point of opening the door to the stairwell, but his stomach can’t stay in place any longer.  His shoulders jerk forward and he heaves, spraying bile all over the floor.

“Oh my god.”  May drops the garbage bag and reaches for Peter, grabbing a fistful of his t-shirt to keep him from slipping and falling.  “Ok, you’re ok.”

“I’m so sorry,” Peter chokes.  “I don’t know where that came from.”

“Yeah, I don’t know either,” May says.  “You would’ve told me if you were feeling bad, right?”  She bends slightly to look Peter in the eyes. “We’re not past being honest with each other here.”

“No, it just came on really fast–”  Peter vomits again. “Shit.”

“That’s one of my bad habits,” Tony admits.  “The cussing. Not the, um. Other stuff.”

May isn’t listening to him anymore.  “Ok, do you feel like you can walk upstairs?” she asks, rubbing Peter’s back.

“Mm, yeah, I think so.”  He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.  

“Alright.  There we go.”  May opens the door to the stairs.  Then she looks to Tony over her shoulder.  “Another time, ok?”

“Yeah, message received,” he says.  He picks up the trash bag and holds it at arm’s length.  “I’ll just toss this. Dumpster’s out back, right?”


	42. Peter needs Laura B to come pick him up

Peter’s too scared to stop the car thief on the highway.  Maybe scared is the wrong word.  He missed the opportunity to apprehend the suspect before he made it out of the city, and it’s all Peter can do to swing light pole to light pole as the outdated Honda trundles its way upstate.  He’s pretty sure his head was throbbing before he started out on patrol, but the repeated thoughts of  _god, you’re stupid, Parker_ , certainly aren’t helping.

The car makes a sudden turn into the parking lot of Dunkin Donuts.  Peter’s glad for the break from the exertion required to keep pace with traffic.  He plans to get his breath for a minute and face the guy head-on when he’s on his way out, but after the Honda rear-ends two cars and attempts to speed through the drive-thru without paying, Peter has to act quickly.  

It ends up being surprisingly simple to web the doors shut and stick the tires to the asphalt of the parking lot, locking the thief inside the car and preventing his escape.  But the guy cusses and shouts through his ski mask, and the manager of the restaurant isn’t too thrilled about the vehicle stopped diagonally across  four parking spots.  

“Ok, ok,” Peter says, backing up with his hands raised.  “It’ll dissolve in like an hour.  Just call the cops to come get him.”

But the manager’s face is red and angry under his paper hair net.  He shouts a few more words in–not Spanish, surely.  Maybe Italian?  Peter isn’t sure.  But the shooting pain in his temple is reason enough to back off.

He makes it two more blocks before his stomach climbs into his throat and he has to leap behind a dumpster.  Peter hastily pulls off his mask and heaves, undigested breakfast splattering to the pavement between his boots.  “Gross,” he mutters.  “God, why now?”  He’s sick, far from home, and on top of it all, not having a very successful patrol.  He doesn’t want to think about what today’s status report message will sound like on Mr. Stark’s answering machine.  

Peter’s about to put his mask back on and turn back toward the city, but he retches again.  His head spins, and he has to brace his hands on his knees to keep from falling over.  “Whoa, ok.”  He spits and drags in a few rattling breaths.  “Ok, fine.”

Peter squints at the nearest street sign.  Schoharie County…  The name is actually familiar.  He wonders for a second where he’s heard it before, but then Peter hears the sounds of footsteps and children’s voices from halfway down the block, and it comes to him all of a sudden.  Clint lives here.  His quiet farmhouse can’t be more than a couple miles down the road.  

Peter’s not making it even a single mile, though.  He tries again to straighten up, but vertigo hits him square in the face again.  “Hey, Karen?” he croaks.

“Would you like to issue a distress call?” the AI asks.  She’s probably taking his vitals and uploading the data as they speak.

“Uh, no,” Peter says.  “But do I have a phone number for Laura Barton?  Or, uh, or Clint?”

“You have both on your contacts list,” Karen reports.  “Would you like to place a call?”

“Yeah.”  Peter wipes his mouth on the back of his glove.  “Can you call Laura?  And ask her if I can come, you know, hang out?  For, like, a few minutes?  Just till I…stop feeling like I’m gonna pass out?”

“I’m placing the call now,” the AI says.  “In the meantime, my protocol is to remind you that Mrs. Barton has issued a standing invitation to all members of the Avengers when they are in the area.”

“Good,” Peter murmurs.  “That’s good.  Do I have to go there, or can she come pick me up?”

Karen doesn’t miss a beat.  “I’ll relay your current location.”


	43. Tony has a migraine, so he can't teach Peter to cook

Peter’s surprised when Tony ushers him, not into the lab, but into the kitchen.  

“Has anybody taught you how to make pizza?” his mentor asks, pulling a ball of dough covered in cling wrap from the fridge.

Peter slowly shakes his head.

“That’s a tragedy.  Come on.”  Tony grabs a handful of Peter’s sleeve and sets him to work kneading.  “It’s like engineering, only harder.  Because it’s also chemistry.  And physics.”

“Why are we cooking?” Peter asks as he flattens his portion of the dough between his hands.  “I thought you, uh, liked things to be convenient.”

“Yeah, well…”  Tony wipes his forehead on his shoulder.  “Pepper invited people over for dinner, and decided to remind me that it’s been a while since I observed my proper duties as host…”

“Who’d she invite?”  Peter looks at Tony.

“Thor and Jane.  I don’t think Thor would know the difference between frozen and delivery, so why we’re fucking around with homemade is beyond– What’re you doing?!”  Tony grabs Peter’s wrist to keep him from folding the dough in half.

“Um.  Kneading?”  Peter says in a small voice.  He glances from the creases in Tony’s forehead to the tremor in the hand gripping his own.  “Are you ok, Mr. Stark?”

“Yeah…”  Tony lets go, then smudges flour across his brow as he digs the heel of his hand into his eye.  “That’s gonna be all chewy and disgusting if you overwork it.  Haven’t you ever taken home ec?”

“No…” Peter admits.  “You sure you’re ok?  I mean, I want to learn how to cook, and this is totally cool, but…”  He trails off, unsure of what to say.

“Sorry, kid,” Tony sighs.  “I don’t think they teach this isn school either, but stress is bad for your health.  And so are dinner parties, sometimes.”

“Have you been, you know, sleeping lately?” Peter asks cautiously.  “Eating?  Taking breaks from working?”

“If putting down the tools to take a couple Excedrin counts, then yes,” Tony says with a humorless laugh.  

“I don’t think it does.”  Now that Peter’s paying attention, he sees all of Tony’s tells–the slight hunch of his shoulders, the lines around his eyes, the way his throat works before he opens his mouth to speak.  “Do you wanna, like, take a nap or something?  I bet FRIDAY can talk me through the rest of the recipe.”

“Nice try, kid.  But I’ll get Pepper to pick up something else.  We’ll do this some other time.”  Tony pulls a box of plastic wrap from a drawer and shoves it at Peter.  “Perfect pizza crust requires a distinctly human touch.”


	44. Peter Parker calls Tony to pick him up from a college party

Tony’s used to being disturbed at three in the morning.  It’s a great hour for exciting happenings, like, say, an evil genius trying to blow up the planet.  Or Pepper getting home from the airport.  

Tony’s so far past valuing a good night’s sleep that he doesn’t care.  He doesn’t silence any of the facility’s alarms when he gets into bed; whatever he loses over night will be made up later.  Fury’s mission briefings are great for dozing.

When the electronic ringing rouses him before dawn, Tony instinctively looks around for flashing lights, holographic screens, anything really.  “FRIDAY?” he asks groggily.  “What’s going on?”

“That’s your mobile phone, sir,” the AI informs him.  

Oh.  Tony sees it on the bedside table now, the device’s edges a blur of vibrations.  He’d been expecting something a little more impressive, maybe a chance to test out the building’s automatic sprinkler system.  Hence why he’d been looking to the ceiling.

But he’s awake now, so no use ignoring it, even if it is just a boring phone call.  Tony doesn’t take in the name flashing on the display as he swipes right and says, “Hello?”

“Oh my god, you actually answered,” Peter’s frantic voice says.

“Um.  Yeah?”  Tony’s sure his brain is still missing a few pixels as he moves toward true wakefulness, but something’s not right.  He can’t put his finger on what it is yet, but something about the kid’s voice, the background noise… Better to just ask rather than waste time thinking about it.  “What’s going on.”

“God, Mr. Stark, I’m really sorry,” Peter groans.  “I just…can you…?  I don’t have anyone else…”

“Hey, Pete?”  Tony sits up and finds his slippers under the nightstand.  “Just spit it out.”

“Ok, um.  Can, uh, can I have a ride?  I went to this party, and, um…”  The kid trails off.  Tony can suddenly hear the slur in his voice a lot more clearly.  

“Sure.  Of course you can.”  Tony holds the phone between his shoulder and ear as he pulls on a jacket over his pajamas.  “Where are you?”

“Um…  A house?”

“Yeah, I probably should’ve known better,” Tony mutters.  He puts the call on speaker and pulls up GPS.  He looks at the distance between the facility and what looks to be a block of frat houses near NYU, weighing the options of sports car vs. Iron Man suit.  He’s not fond of the idea of regurgitated alcohol getting on either.  But that’s not important.  “How’re you feeling?” Tony asks.  “Are you safe?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Peter says, though Tony can hear him gulping on the other end of the line.  “Just, you know.  I’m alright.”

“Hang in there, kid,” Tony tells him, jogging down the hallway toward the garage.  “I’ll be there soon.”


	45. Peter's depressed and sick on Christmas Day

Peter flops down in his desk chair, letting momentum spin him in a slow half-circle.  He probably could ride the arc all the way around, but his stomach starts to climb into his throat, so he stops himself with his feet.

May had kissed his forehead and told him to go back to bed, but he’s engaging in a last act of defiance.  His aunt’s advice isn’t bad; Peter’s aching head practically begs him to get into a horizontal position.  He doesn’t want to, though.  Right at this moment, he doesn’t want anything.

Sure, the presents are tempting, and the orange juice and coffee cake in the kitchen would be too if he wasn’t afraid he’d throw up.  Hell, he still feels like he could throw up, even though his stomach’s empty.  

Peter hasn’t had a normal Christmas in over a decade.  There was that one, back in sixth or seventh grade, when the most wonderful time of the year was something close to wonderful, but then Ben died, and May had scrimped pennies to buy him whatever the hot toy was that year.  

Peter should remember.  He should remember how old he was.  It’s not that he’s forgotten exactly, he struggles to remind himself.  He remembers the tired lines around May’s eyes from all the days she’d picked up extra shifts.  It’s just his fever, just bubbles of toxic gas rising from his stomach and messing with his mind.  

The urge to gag grows at the back of his throat, but Peter ignores it and throws himself face-down onto his bed.  The rumpled sheets are cold, and they don’t kill the nausea, but the affect makes him feel a little calmer.  He’ll just go to sleep, and he’ll be fine.  It’s one good thing about living a ruined life.  He doesn’t have to worry about ruining any one day.  Even if it is Christmas.


	46. Peter suffers the exhaustion and fever that come with mono

Peter’s backpack feels like it weighs about five times as much as it usually does.  He shuffles through the school’s front doors and starts down the concrete steps, trailing his hand down the railing.  The chipped paint scrapes agains this palm, itching and tickling in a way that almost hurts.  He’s used to being able to sense the grittiness of the world around him, but it doesn’t get to him.  At least, not too often.

Peter lifts his hand and looks at it.  It appears completely normal.  Maybe a little pale on the back and a little red on the palm, but there aren’t splinters sticking out of his skin.  No bloody abrasions.  It’s all in his head.

Peter gives it a little shake, like he’s clearing water from his hears.  His hair flops agains his temples in heavy chunks.  Greasy.  Maybe sweaty.  He could use a shower.  He’s cold.  There’s a hollow ache in his throat, a tightness in his chest.  He wants to breathe in steam.  

Peter stops in the middle of the sidewalk.  His feet point automatically in the direction of the deli, of the alley where he usually stashes his stuff and prepares to patrol.  That’s not where he wants to go, though.  His neurons chug along at half speed, forcing him to consciously think of the maze of streets that will take him back home.  It’ll be easier to just take the bus.  He doesn’t feel like webbing.  Or walking.  He doesn’t feel like doing anything.

Somebody shoves Peter from behind, a bony shoulder catching him in the ribs, zinging sharply between his arm and his backpack.  The person brushes past him, not even bothering to apologize.  They’re probably in a hurry; he’s probably blocking the way… But the thoughts taper off as a new wave of tiredness lands.  His jaw slackens, abruptly stopping the chattering of his teeth.  It makes him feel sick.

He’s not nauseated exactly, though his head hurts in the way that sends wire-thin feelers down his throat and through his chest cavity, reaching around for his stomach or his lungs or his spine or anything else it can infect with the ache of fever.  Peter has no doubt that he’s sick; it’s impossible to be this sore and sleepy without spiking a fever.  He prays the symptoms stay clear of his gut, though.  The pavement feels like it’s bruising the balls of his feet through the soft insoles of his sneakers.  The thought of bald knees on bathroom tile makes him cringe.  

He’ll fall into bed when he gets home, Peter decides.  Homework can wait.  Patrol can wait.  Mr. Stark…  He can wait, too.  But that doesn’t mean he should. Peter will still text him.  Just as soon as he gets a seat on the bus.  A cushioned one, he hopes.


	47. Peter can't hold it down through the post-mission briefing

The kid’s been looking a little off for the last… Tony isn’t sure how long anymore.  There’s a certain amount of sweat and pallor, a certain number of bruised cheekbones and bloody lips that are permissible after battles.  They all wind up with little injuries too minor to warrant a trip to medical, and most of them are too stubborn to accept help, so Tony’s used to spending the long flights back to New York in stony silence.  

When Natasha sat curled and cat-like on a window seat, holding an ice pack to the side of her head, Tony gave her a wide berth.  He picked a spot across from Peter, eyeing the kid’s milky face and the edges of the teeth sinking into his lower lip.  He tried to guess Peter’s emotion.  Scared, maybe?  Disturbed?  There had been civilian casualties.  Tony couldnt remember if the kid’s been on a mission that ended that way before.  Peter’s usually talkative to the point of annoyance, so Tony assumed if there was a problem, he’d hear about it sooner or later.  As long as the kid wasn’t going to be as grouchy as Nat, Tony was pleased with his choice.

Was.  He’s a little less sure now.  They disembarked from the jet and took an elevator to one of the tower’s numerous conference rooms.  Fury was waiting, slides on the holographic projector and mission report forms spread over the table.  The three of them sat in much the same arrangement to endure the briefing.  

Tony probably should’ve sat on the other side of Peter, one seat ahead of him so he could pay attention to the presentation without distraction.  That is, if Tony cared at all about what Fury had to say.  He has trouble with focus on the best of days, and now, with the kid slumped with his elbows on the table in front of him, he finds himself engrossed in mental math.

They’ve been in this briefing how long?  After how many hours in the air?  And the battle itself, what timestamp is on that?  It felt like minutes, but Tony thinks he’s off.  But regardless, they’ve been out of harm’s way, and subsequently on solid ground, long enough that the kid probably shouldn’t be shaking in his seat.  

Peter has his gloves and mask off, but he’s turned away from Tony.  Even if he can’t see the kid’s face, there are other markers.  A ring of sweat soaking his suit around the neck.  Blue veins standing out on the backs of his hands.  If Tony strains his ears, he thinks he can hear the kid’s teeth chattering.  

“Is that clear?” Fury asks, glancing meaningfully at each of them.

Tony has no idea what came before it, but he says, “Yes, sir,” anyway.  Odd how easy it is to be compliant when he has other things on his mind.  

Nat reaches for a sheet of paper and a pen.  She was probably listening to the instructions.  Tony makes to copy her, but he’s distracted again when Peter swivels his chair 90 degrees and gives him a fleeting sideways look under the curtain of his bangs.  

“Mr. Stark…?” The kid whispers.

“What?  You ok?” Tony tries to pick up a pen, but misses.  The kid’s eyes are wet and panicky, and his voice seems breathy and gurgling at the same time.

“I think I–” Peter cuts off, dipping his chin as he gulps, but it does nothing to arrest the torrent of sick that gushes from between his lips.  He leans forward, instinctively trying to avoid the table and his suit.  He winds up hanging over his knees as he vomits onto the floor and Tony’s shoes.

“Whoa, ok.”  Tony’s heart beats a million miles a minute.  Any hopes of getting out of the way are dashed.  Just knowing his socks are swimming in filth makes his own stomach knot in sympathy.  

Peter retches again.  His face goes an alarming shade of grey-green, and his eyelids flutter.  His grip on the arm of his chair slackens for a second, then redoubles as he fights to stay conscious.  

Tony grabs the kid’s shaking shoulders to steady him.  “Hey.  Stay with me,” he says.

Peter lets loose a prolonged, choked heave.  His head is practically in Tony’s lap now, his body giving up on keeping itself upright.  “Ohmygod,” he rasps.  “I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s–don’t–”  Tony stutters.  He’s glad he’s in jeans now instead of his suit.  “It’s fine.  Just…”  He shakes his head, sure he’d be entrenched in disbelief if he wasn’t so worried.  “Did you take a hit or something?  Or have extreme airsickness you never mentioned before?”

“I…”  Peter barely utters a single syllable before he’s spitting up a weak stream of bile and water that splashes lamely into the puddle already on the floor.  “Ugh.  Sorry.”

“Alright.  Tell me later.”  Tony chances letting go of one of the kid’s arms to pat him between the shoulder blades.  “For now, breathe.  You have one job.  Ok?”

“Hm.”  Peter tries and fails to quell a dry heave.  “Ok.”


	48. Peter has a cold and Tony says he has to go to school anyway

The kid has a cough.  

Tony stops midway through pulling up the newspaper on his iPad.  One hand poises above the screen.  The other holds the stem of his reading glasses, the ones he doesn’t like to admit he needs.  The kid’s noticed them, but after a well-timed glare over the tops of the plastic frames, he’d pressed his lips together and swallowed his laugh, leaving Tony with his last shred of dignity intact.  

Peter coughs again. and Tony’s thoughts snap out of last Tuesday with the force of a stretched rubber band.  It doesn’t matter if the kid is 17 and two months.  He’s still a kid.  He has a kid cough.  The kind that sounds like gravel in a coffee can with a little whip at the end, like the curly tail on a lowercase A or a U.  A question.  Can you hear me now?, like those old cell phone commercials.  

It’s a nasty cough.  Germy.  If Tony was in a waiting room at the doctor’s office, he’d cease touching all hard surfaces and demand a thorough wipe-down.  Since he’s in his own home, he’s probably more entitled to demanding a wipe-down. But as he lowers his not-quite-unfolded glasses to the kitchen table, Tony watches Peter blow his nose.  He pushes in his chair before he walks around the long way to toss the tissue in the trash.  The kid’s too polite for his own good.  

No, that’s not quite right.  He’s too polite for Tony’s good, because Tony’s a sucker for it.  What’s really nuts is that Peter doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.  He talks the same way to everybody, acts the same regardless of situation.  Other people aren’t bent to the kid’s will.  They can ignore him without their hearts dropping out the bottoms of their stomachs.  Tony sighs as the lid of the garbage slowly shuts with its quiet, energy-saving whir.

“So, um Mr. Stark?,” Peter starts, dragging his chair back from the table again and sitting in front of his cornflakes.  

“Yeah?”  Tony does a passable impression of reading the newspaper, except that he isn’t.  Because he can’t see.  Because his glasses are still on the table.

“Um, I kind of have this cold, you know?” the kid says.  He sniffles.  Tony isn’t sure if it’s real or just for effect.  “So it might not be a good idea for me to go to school.  I’ll get everybody else sick.  Or maybe I’ll get more sick.”

“Hm.”

“And I have a really good idea for a new setting for my webshooters.  You know fire foam?  How it starts spraying and then it gets big?  Like psshhhhh…”  Peter uses his hamds to illustrate.  The gunk rattling in his sinuses actually makes a decent approximation of the sound of a fire extinguisher.  He looks to Tony.  “That’s science.  It’s…educational.”

Tony doesn’t need his glasses to see the kid’s face across the table, but he reaches for them anyway.  Peter is a little pale, his cheeks a little flushed.  His eyes are hopeful.  Tony’s heart sinks a few more inches.  He wonders if it has the momentum to bust through the seat of his chair and flop onto the floor.  

“No.”  Tony looks at the fingerprints on one of his lenses.  He doesn’t want to watch the kid’s face fall.  He can’t have Peter underfoot in the lab all day.  It’s hard enough to coach him through projects on weekends; if Tony had to supervise him seven days a week, he’d never get anything done.  Peter should know by now that asking “what does this do?” rarely results in a succinct answer, but he keeps asking.  Tony both loves and hates indulging him.  “You have to go to school.  You already miss enough school for…what are we calling them?  Retreats?”

“Oh.”  The kid coughs quietly.  “Ok.  Yeah.  I just thought, like, because I’m sick, but, you know.  Ok.”

It’s all shades of awkward.  Tony can’t bring himself to make eye contact.  Of course Peter’s being a good sport about it, and that’s only making it worse.  Tony would rather be on the receiving end of a teenage attitude, some snide comment meant to get his hackles up.  

But he can’t say “fuck you” to a kid who is actually sniffling and sneezing.  He’ll have to settle for saying it to himself.  Or, Tony thinks as he crosses the room and opens the door to the basement lab, to Howard.  He was only good for one thing, and today Tony’s glad he’s used to working long days without breakfast.  


	49. Tony rescues a sick Peter when he can't finish patrol

“Peter?”

“Huh?  What?”  Peter snaps to attention with one foot on the top rail of the fire escape.  He quickly jumps to the sidewalk below, landing in a crouch and wincing as the impact carries through the soles of his boots and makes his vertebrae crash together.  He sees stars for a second, then the jarring sensation fizzles out.

“Your body temperature is elevated, and you have not responded to my last four questions,” Karen’s voice says in his ear.  Ear, singular, because the other one is clogged like it’s underwater.

“Oh.”  Peter’s mask is damp under his nose, and the whistling breeze cuts through the thin fabric of his suit.  “What was I supposed to say?”

“I wouldn’t dream of telling you how to answer a question.”

“Ok…”  Peter chooses not to think too hard about how an AI executes the task of dreaming.  “Can you, uh, repeat the question, then?”

“My protocol is to signal for help once your rate of correct answers drops below 25%.”

“I thought you wouldn’t dream of–”  Peter breaks off with a cough.  He wraps his arms around his chest and forces his teeth not to chatter.  The least he can do is not stand in the middle of the walkway.  He’d probably be warmer in an alley anyway.  

“Though answers are subjective, yes-or-no questions should be answered with ‘yes’ or ‘no.’“ 

“Snarky robot lady today,” Peter mumbles.

“I was created by a snarky programmer,” Karen says.  Peter swears he can almost hear her chuckling.

“Yeah, can’t argue there.”  Peter coughs again.  He looks up and down the street, which is void of traffic.  Strange for this hour of the afternoon, but he’ll take it.  If he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t mind the excuse to call it quits a bit early.  He shoots a web up to the roof of the building next door, berating himself for climbing down in the first place.  It’s faster to move around above street level.  And easier to patrol.

Peter breaks the web’s contact with the brick as soon as his boots scrape the grainy flat rooftop.  Both feet come down flat, but his knees buckle.  He windmills his arms, but to no avail.  He collapses in a heap a few feet past a skylight.  

At least he’s not on top of it, he thinks as he lifts his mask.  And good thing, too, because Peter’s stomach seems to have remained stationary a few feet above his head.  A sour bubble grows in his throat, and a loud belch and a dribble of bile send him crashing onto all fours.

“Whoa, geez, kid.”  The soft metallic tap of footsteps and the sizzle of cooling reuplsor jets approaches behind Peter’s shoulder.  “Is there something wrong with your sensors?  I got mild distress, not…this.”  Tony opens a flap in the armor on his wrist and fiddles with a display.  “This is a health meter, not something for salsa taste-tests.  Why is the highest level ‘spicy?’“

“I believe it was in reference to a fever, sir,” FRIDAY’s voice replies.

“Oh.”  Tony’s glove retracts automatically and he yanks the mask the rest of the way off Peter’s head.  “This thing is hot.  This thing is not supposed to be hot.  Do we have a rule about patrolling when you’re sick?”

“Um,”  Peter fights the urge to vomit again.  “No?”

“Well, I’m making one.  Karen, take notes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright, should be easy enough to remember.”  Tony pulls Peter up by his armpits, then leans back as the kid claps his hand over his mouth.  “No sick patrols.  I don’t like this.”

“Not a fan either,” Peter groans.  “I’ll try…not to do it again.”


	50. Depressed Peter vomits blood alone

Peter clutches the edges of the toilet bowl with shaking hands, wishing to be anywhere but here.  Doing anything but this.  He pitches forward and retches again, bringing up a thin stream of mucous and bile.  Pink tinged this time.  

He sighs.  So now there’s blood.  Guild drops hard in his stomach like a weight, sending nausea soaring back up into his throat.  A sick belch burns its way out, then lightheadedness sends him tipping to the side until his temple finds the wall above the toilet paper roll.  

As terrible as this is, there’s a safety to it somehow.  The sickness tethers him in space and time, keeps him breathing from one moment to the next.  There’s no past and no future, just now.  Just pain.  Just him.


	51. Peter is carsick on a road trip with May

“Who convinced me that driving to Mt. Rushmore was a good idea?” May mumbles under her breath.  “Like, seriously.  Who?”

“Hm,” Peter groans from the passenger seat.  “I don’t know.  Wasn’t me.”

“No, I distinctly remember you telling me you wanted to go.  To research some history project, right?”  May vaguely waves her hand in Peter’s direction.  

“Well, yeah,” Peter admits.  “I said I wanted to go.  Not that I wanted to drive…”  He trails off as a sick belch rises in his throat.

“Too bad,” May says, changing lanes to pass a truck spewing exhaust.  “I’m financing this trip, so none of that fancy air travel.  Plus, this is fun, right?  Bonding time?”

“Um.”  Peter gulps.  “I love ya, May.  A lot.”

“I love you too,” May replies, confused.  “That’s the voice you use when you want something.”

“Yeah…”  Peter cages his hand loosely over his mouth, tasting bile.  “Do you think you could pull over?  Please?  Like, now?”

May swears and looks right and left, then steers the car toward the shoulder of the highway.  “Sure thing, kiddo,” she says with a sympathetic laugh.  “Sure thing.”

 

 


	52. Peter vomits suddenly on a mission

“Seriously, kid?”  Tony looks over his shoulder, attempting to divine why Peter is standing stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk.  “This is a mission, not a cake walk.”

“Um, yeah…”  Peter’s voice trails off.  The eyes of his mask crinkle around the corners as he squints at the car barreling up the street.

“And there goes the getaway driver…”  Tony shakes his head.  “That means we swoop in.”

“Actually, Mr. Stark, I feel really sick all of the sudden.”  One of the kid’s hands goes to his stomach while the other drifts up to his mouth.”

“Ah.”  Tony suddenly understands.  “You know, kid, this really isn’t the best time for you to throw up, so if you could keep it together for two more min–” 

Peter pitches at the waist, scrabbling at his mask and spraying the ground with a stream of yellowish fluid and bile.

“Shit!” Tony curses, lowering his feet to the pavement and taking off at a fast clip.  “Ok, um, new plan.”  He grabs Peter around the shoulders to keep him from falling, then sends a pulsar blast toward the car, shattering the windshield on the unsuspecting driver.  “If I aim for you, can you web him to the seat?”

“Huh?”  The kid obviously doesn’t process.  He glances sideways at Tony, then retches again.

“Look, just shoot straight.”  Tony yanks Peter’s trashed glove away from his mouth and opens the palm, aiming at the still-skidding vehicle.

“Ok,” Peter chokes.  He flips his wrist obediently, then quickly frees himself as soon as the white cord leaves his hand.  “I’m really sorry, Mr. Stark.  I don’t know what happened…”

“Yeah, me either.”  Tony pulls the kid toward a bus stop and forces him down on the bench.  “Now, you stay put till I clean up this mess.”  He nods at the car now forming a traffic jam in the middle of the street.  “Then I’ll come clean up your mess.”


	53. Harry comforts Peter after Tony's death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spiderverse 2.0. Also, ENDGAME SPOILERS.

“You weren’t answering your phone, so May let me in…”  Harry’s footsteps stop just outside Peter’s bedroom.  There’s a soft sound as he presses his palm to the door.  “Can I come in?”

“I…”  Peter starts, but there are still too many tears in his voice, too much snot running down his throat.  “No.  Not…not right now.”

“Can I stay out here?”  The swishing sound of a jacket brushing against the wall carries through the crack under the door.  “Until you feel a little better?”

“Just leave!”  Peter doesn’t mean to shout.  It’s as if his voice bypasses a normal volume and jumps right up to a screech.  “Just get out of here!”

It’s Harry’s turn to stammer.  “I… Ok.”  He doesn’t move, though.  “If you really want me to.”

“I do.”  Peter sniffles.  “Or, no, I don’t.  I don’t know.”

“I can get May, if you want.”

“No.”  Moisture brims in Peter’s eyes again.  “I just want…  I want him back.”

“I know, Pete.”

“No,” Peter says again, angrily again.  “You didn’t know him.  This isn’t him.  He doesn’t… He doesn’t  _rest_ …”  Hysteria rises in Peter’s throat with the taste of bile.  He coughs into his hand, barely pulling the trash can from under his desk in time to be sick into it.

“Pete.”  The doorknob rattles, then clicks as the flimsy lock mechanism breaks.  The hinges squeak, and then suddenly there’s an arm around Peter’s shoulders, a warm, solid hand patting his back.

“I said go away.”  But he leans into Harry’s touch.

“I know.”

“I… I miss him.”

“I know.”

“That’s…” Peter pauses to quell a queasy hiccup.  “That’s all I’m going to feel for a while, I think.”

“Yeah.”  Harry pushes Peter’s sweaty hair off his forehead.  “I know.”


End file.
